


Ties and Wires

by The Nox-Zi Consortium (TranscientNight), The Nox-Zi Consortium (Zikul)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassians, Disability, Episode: s02e22 The Wire, F/M, IDIC (Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations), Investigations, LGBTQ Themes, LGBTQIA Character(s), M/M, Original Character(s), Other, Polyamory, Post-Episode: s02e22 The Wire, Pre-Episode: s02e22 The Wire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 335,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13919784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TranscientNight/pseuds/The%20Nox-Zi%20Consortium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zikul/pseuds/The%20Nox-Zi%20Consortium
Summary: One hundred doses of triptacederine against the name of the Cardassian man on an old paper photo: such is the deal struck between Garak the tailor and Melekor the halfbreed. One hopes to stay alive, the other hopes to find life. And then, there are the doctors, Julian Bashir of Starfleet, and Timun Lykes of Trill, struggling to take good care of those unwilling Cardassians...





	1. Day 1 - I

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally co-written as a rp, and since we are very nerdy about writing, we opted to give the text many passes of editing and proofreading to make it into something as good and professional as could be. We sincerely hope you'll enjoy the plot, the characters and the style – this is pretty much a fan novel, which we would have proposed for publication if it weren't clashing with Pocket Book's guidelines (what with the sex scenes...)
> 
> The entire story is written, so you won't be left hanging on a cliffhanger, but we would greatly appreciate to get a few comments before posting the next chapter! (and sharing is caring, and all that~)

  
  
  


# Part I

##    
The Wire

  
  
  
  


* * *

## Day 1

Garak the tailor was seated in his workshop, indulging himself with literature rather than haute couture. To his surprise, he was finding that he quite liked the beginning of the story on his PADD. He had been seduced into this reading by his lunch mate’s quoting of the Jungle’s Law: “ _For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack,_ ” and so far, the story seemed like something a Cardassian could relate to. But the Cardassian had to tear his eyes away from the text to glance at the man who had entered his shop.

The elegant coat of red and gold fabric, and the fancy sunglasses of a glossy dark purple material were the first details that earned the tailor’s attention – fine taste: it _could_ be a client. His black hair was cut in a fashion that matched his pair of pointed ears, but the orderly hairstyle was challenged by rebellious spunk. For a Vulcan, the newcomer seemed slightly anxious and hesitant. The Cardassian opted to wait and see if his visitor was there to pass an order or look at the freak. Oh, there could be other motives, he knew, but those two were his main concerns at the moment. Truth be told, he didn’t feel like working presently. He had a slight headache and opted to return his attention to the text, only distantly keeping a bout of attention on the other.

When the tailor didn’t approach, the alien started to look at the clothes on display, and Garak let him do, hoping he might get bored and leave. But then, the stranger ended up lost in the contemplation of a bright green dress, and its creator was left to wonder what exactly it was that the man could see that was so fascinating. Not that he’d ask so directly, of course.

“May I help you?” Garak finally unfolded from the chair and set his PADD on the worktable. The other nervously turned to him but offered a warm smile as the tailor crossed into the shop. Getting closer, Garak was struck with the realization that the alien wasn’t just pointy-eared; he also had spots discreetly running from the forehead to the neck, dark on the brown shade of his skin. Like the panther in the book.

“I was just looking,” the Vulcan-Trill hybrid excused himself.

“So it seemed,” the tailor approached. “But do take your time; I am in no hurry.”

“Rule of Acquisition number 37: let time water seeds of guilt and you’ll harvest your clients’ latinum,” the other raised a finger as he quoted. What a queer character, the Cardassian thought although he didn’t let it show.

“Oh!” he laughed instead, “I’ll trust you on that one. But please. _Enjoy_ your time here, and let the quality of my work dictate your will to purchase. The honest judgement of a customer is worth more than latinum, I ensure you,” he froze in a large smile, waiting a second before adding, “Of course, if you have any question-”

“Are you about to make a polite or a genuine offer to answer any of my questions?” the other interrupted. “Because, if it’s genuine, I have a lot of questions, but if it’s polite… I would hate to bother you.” Garak straightened up, looking at him.

“I meant to be polite, but your curiosity kindles my own. Are your questions going to be offensive?” he still bewared – the other’s shoulders slumped a bit.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I don’t _mean_ to be offensive, but sometimes, I am. But if I were to say something that is unwelcome, you could absolutely tell me and I’ll make sure not to say it again. As much as possible.”

“I see… And so, what sort of questions would you have?” the tailor asked with caution.

“Oh, well, I think it might be very embarrassing, but I happen to be waiting for my visum to be hopefully approved in order to travel to Cardassia,” the strange alien started to explain. “I am faced with two predicaments: the rules of the Code of Conduct for Aliens seem to be either complete non-sense, or to have been translated by a drunken yak ...and I am having a very hard time to find extended Kardasi lexicons.”

“You’re making the effort to try learning Kardasi?” Garak was slightly surprised but more guarded than enthusiast about the notion. Suspicious even. “Why?” he squinted accusatively at the young man.

“Well, it’s part of the culture, and there can still be misunderstandings with universal translators. I’d rather avoid misunderstandings as much as possible, and troubles too.”

“If you really want to avoid troubles, you should probably choose another destination,” the tailor teased. “May I ask what you intend to do there?”

“Of course,” the man smiled brightly. “I wish to observe the Cardassian way of life and study the way your species manages emotions. I’m a doctor,” he added.

“Doctor in psychology?”

“Neurologist and physical therapist actually,” he corrected. Garak nodded with a pinched smile. A _doctor_.

“I couldn’t help but notice you seemed quite enticed by this dress,” he derailed the topic completely, pulling at a green sleeve to make the fabric shimmer in the dimmer light of the shop.

“Oh, yes, it’s splendid, really. Those colors are… very nice,” the Vulcan-Trill approved, moving his glasses again.

“I could tailor one for you ...or for a dear friend of yours, maybe?”

“You could, but I’m not sure I could afford it-” he interrupted himself to clarify hurriedly, “Your prices are decent, I believe, but I’m a bit savey.”

“For the trip.”

“No- or well, yes, maybe. Probably,” he started to get nervous again. “Well, maybe I should get going. Sorry for bothering you if I did. I probably did. It was still nice to meet you, at least for me, Mister…”

“Garak,” the tailor completed.

“Like the Clothier.”

 _Like the shop._ Somehow, that hurt more than Garak had expected, but he didn’t let it show. In a second, artificial happiness engulfed him and all was fine again.

“Yes,” he answered plainly. “A good day to you Doctor…?”

“Timun Lykes,” the man smiled. “Did it sound like I talked about _tea-moon_ ... _likes_? Sometimes translators pick it wrong.”

“I think I got it right.”

Garak let him go and went to sit by his computer. He massaged his temples and sighed. The content feeling soon stopped and everything was a bit more dreadful again. He tiredly reached for his PADD, setting up a comlink to the station computer to investigate his new acquaintance some more. He was disappointed to find but very little information on him. However Odo seemed to have kept a large number of tabs on the alien’s father, judging by the archive’s size. Jaden Mynx; the name suggested a Joined Trill, and Garak raised an eyeridge. Appearances could be deceiving, and if a Joined Trill could delve into business that would catch the Constable’s attention, a doctor such as Lykes could certainly do the same. Moreover, the young man seemed to have arranged quarters with a dubious character – a Dopterian, probably a smuggler of some sort. Upon further inspection, it seemed that the Dopterian had recently established subspace calls to Prime from his quarters. There was no way Lykes wasn’t dealing with him. And he wanted to go to _Cardassia?_ All the more questionable.

Breaking into Odo’s files took longer than usual; Garak had a hard time focusing but put it on his ever-racing and spinning mind, and on the tinnitus that came up every now and then, annoying him with the shifts of its sharp sound. By moments, it almost felt like a metallic wire grating in his mind. He didn’t think much about it until he grew bothered enough that his implant released a gentle salve of endorphins to soothe him. He relaxed. All was well again.

“My, my, that’s a long shopping list,” a familiar voice whispered behind him. In an instant, Garak shut off the PADD’s screen and turned to Julian. _Doctors_. He hadn’t heard him and was rather annoyed with himself, with how vulnerable he’d allowed himself to be. “I thought you’d be standing in line at the Replimat by now,” the doctor fired a smug grin and straightened up, overlooking the fact that his friend had been nosing around files that probably weren’t meant for his eyes – that he’d caught him red-handed in the act was worth a lot in itself.

“Ah, but my dear Doctor, I was just about to join you,” the tailor got up at once and discarded his PADD. “You did startle me a bit,” he scolded the young man a little as they walked to the door. “Is it me or you are getting more feline in your walk?”

“I don’t believe I was catwalking nor sneaking, but if you’re worried anything’s up with your hearing-”

“Oh, you would like to have me in sickbay,” Garak snorted. He shook his head and closed his shop for lunch time. “Tell me, Doctor, do you not have some saying about cats and curiosity, on Earth?”

“‘ _Curiosity killed the cat_ ’ as it were – I don’t suppose there’s a Cardassian equivalent?” Julian asked as a nod to what activity Garak had just been engrossing himself in. And so the tailor obliged him with a deceitful lecture mixed with half-relevant semi-truths – it was all the more entertaining to him, although he could very well note that Julian took his words with a bit more salt by now. Back when they first met, he was alike to a child believing absolutely everything “the spy” had to say, while tentatively trying to uncover mysteries under every word and syllable. Over a year and a half later, Garak could see that the seeds he’d planted in him had grown and flourished, and it brought a certain satisfaction to both the gardener and spy within.

The queue to the replicator thankfully wasn’t too long. Julian let his friend serve himself first while still going on about Cardassian sayings about the danger lying in curiosity, some of them almost nonsensical, to mess with him as per usual. And for curiosity’s sake, Garak opted to order a new flavour of tea on the menu.

“Of course, those rules contradict themselves,” he pointed, realizing he might have been inspired a bit by his earlier conversation with the Vulcan-Trill, with his whining about the Cardassian Code of Alien Conduct and his quoting of the Rules of Acquisition (which subsequently made him think of Quark). Quickly, he chased the men away from his mind – it wasn’t that he had a particular animosity towards them, but rather that lunch time with Doctor Bashir was precious enough not to waste it thinking of whiny aliens (who didn’t even purchase anything) and of the Ferengi and his bartender philosophy.

Waiting for Julian to pick his own serving, the Cardassian let his eyes trail over the rest of the room as if nothing piqued his attention, although he did analyze who exactly was sitting where, how, and eating what. And then they went to sit at their table. How despicable it was, this routine… The more it went, the more despicable it became, and that was nothing some Bajoran kafun blossom tea would fix.

“And do all those cautious idioms apply to _all_ Cardassians, or merely the general population?” asked Julian with a vicious glimmer in his eye, as to ask Garak which half he belonged to. They both knew what the real question was, and that it wouldn’t be met with a concrete answer, but each time the ritual met repetition, their friendship was etched a little deeper into the stone.

“Like clothes, each is suited for a specific occasion, and it is up to each one of us to figure the use when time is due,” the tailor lifted his own cup and took a sip. As much as kafun flowers could be pretty, Garak had never had them infused for tea, and now knew exactly why: it was terrible. He didn’t wince however. No. The sharp, acrid taste of the tea fit right in place with the entire setting. The entire situation. Another gulp, and the astringent liquid brought him a certain bliss. “So, tell me, Doctor. Anything interesting happening for you lately?” he threw the ball in the other court. Julian hummed at the question, taking the time to sip thoughtfully on his Tarkalean tea while his cheese-and-cucumber sandwich laid in its abandonment on his plate.

“I did have an unusual case today; a woman who came complaining of what seemed to be acute gastronomical pain. But as I investigated, I had the surprise to discover that she was having a heart attack,” he told and sipped enthusiastically on his tea. “Her heart was where I expected her liver to be! Now, that’s not something you’d expect in a Human, so I tested her DNA. Turned out a sixth of it was Vulcan, and she never knew nor suspected!” He put his cup down, victorious. “With any luck, she’ll be able to extend her family by at least a generation or two. Isn’t that amazing? To go from having a heart attack, to gaining a whole new insight into who you are…”

“How charming,” Garak approved. “All we can hope now is for her to find a welcoming family, were she to pursue researches. Or maybe this could be an occasion for the saying _‘if the present is too fine, it may not be meant for you to enjoy,_ ’ I presume. Not that I wouldn’t expect a Vulcan family to be anything but delighted to learn about this. Your two people hold close ties after all, and Vulcans are very reasonable persons as it would seem.” Julian snorted a little and took a bite of his meal while Garak talked, shaking his head at the idiom.

“And what would you do?” he asked with a laughter, “If you learned you had family you didn’t even know of? Wouldn’t you want to know them? Surely that must happen – if it can happen to such an orderly people as the Vulcans, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be possible with Cardassians. I mean, what about adoption?”

“ _If_ it were me, I would certainly want to know, but moreso even, I would desire all the more that my family never knew of any research of mine to find them. On Cardassia, if your parents haven’t been looking for you in the first place, it’s either for a good reason or… as you know, some political maneuvering. In any way, it is certainly safer to stay where you are, and I, for instance, adore safety far too much to take such inconsiderate risks. Sometimes, we have to simply enjoy what we have, and if we don’t enjoy it, be creative and learn to enjoy it anyway, however abhorrent it might be,” he took a bite from his own food.

It tasted exactly the same as every single time he’d had this ersatz of a dish: incredibly disappointing, and as thus, incredibly satisfying. The irony of it, fueled by the endorphins released by his trafficked implant, allowed him to stretch an even wider grin.

“Learning to be thankful, Doctor, may be the greatest virtue of all.”

“Out of all the species in the Alpha quadrant, I have to say that you Cardassians strike me as the _least_ thankful and _most_ ambitious,” replied Julian, still fascinated by Garak’s attitude. If there was something in particular about Cardassians that he found almost endearing, it had to be how efficiently they distorted their self-image. “If I were a Cardassian and I found out I had a family, I would find a way to integrate myself into it,” he continued, gulping the rest of his meal with gusto, “ _Satisfaction brought it back_ , Garak.” he added, and then clarified: “It’s the other half of the idiom about the cat.”

Behind Julian, an airlock opened, letting out a flow of newly arrived passengers; most of them Bajorans, but a quantity of Trills too. After nearly a day of travel from the latter’s homeworld, their shuttle had finally reached its destination. Some were there to stay for a while or longer, for a glimpse of the wormhole or business to conduct; others would be looking to book passage on other ships – most of them harmless, only a few of them daring.

Melekor counted among the daring few. His first step over the threshold might have been a step ahead of himself and his plans for further voyage – as a matter of fact, Timun Lykes wasn’t the only one to have recently transmitted a visum request to the Cardassian Bureau of Alien Affairs; Melekor had done just so prior to leaving Trill. While he knew the competent authorities likely hadn’t even looked at it yet, he wanted to be ready to depart as soon as he got their response, and Deep Space Nine was the ideal place to get onto a ship headed that way.

The young man stood next to the doorway for a small while, searching his surroundings for anything out of the usual. His eyes quickly landed on the Ferengi. Quark. Now that wasn’t unusual, but Melekor would have to disappoint him. His engineering days aboard the Levossa were over, and so were his dealings with the bartender – he could finally get a chance to discover more of the station instead of inspecting and fixing the shuttle that took him there so many times ...and away again.

In one swift movement, he lowered his scarf and folded back his brown hood, walking up to Quark. The air sure was fresher without the fabric – Melekor usually kept his face concealed on the station, but not today: he’d just quitted his job, and had no one left to please but himself. He offered the Ferengi a friendly smile. The look on the bartender’s face was priceless in its own right.

“You were a Cardassian all along?”

“Surprised?” the engineer raised an eyeridge and put five slips of latinum in the Ferengi’s hand. “Now. Your turn to surprise me.”

Inside the Replimat, the scene had caught Garak’s attention. He didn’t set his eyes directly on the Cardassian newcomer – partly because some Trills had moved in between them, blocking the view – but he lent an ear to try and overhear bribes from the conversation with Quark, all while keeping on his own discussion with Julian, and eating the miserable food in his plate. This had to be the high peak of the day, although it would have certainly been higher if only his Cardassian hearing had been sharper too.

“Oh, Melekor, you know how to talk with a Ferengi,” Quark gave a grunt of approval as he swiftly collected his favorite metal. “I suppose you’ll want to get used to the station first, as you may stay stranded here for quite some time?” he dragged the young man along with him, toward his bar. “I have arranged to get you quarters at a very fair price. We are a bit crowded these days, but I thought having a roommate might be just what you need to get you started around here.” Melekor stopped in his tracks, stopping the Ferengi too as a result. The surprise on his face was unveiled and unashamed – he was pale for a Cardassian, but his scales, albeit less pronounced, still held the same contrast, and enhanced his expression accordingly.

“How did you know?” he blurted, understanding at the same time that Quark wouldn’t really tell him; the furthest he’d likely go was to tell him why he considered it his business to know, so he hastened on to add, “How fair?” in regards to the price. There was a catch, and he knew it. Quark just grinned at the first question, but only cared to answer the second one.

“Fair,” he insisted, pressing a hand against Melekor’s arm to underline the word. “I do _not_ do discount for friends, you know it, but that does not mean I don’t have a heart. One of my clients just had his renting contract reordered to fit with his budget, and I immediately thought of you,” his smile of satisfaction shone in his voice. “Never say Quark doesn’t treat his customers well, eh?” he gave a toothy grin.

“In other words,” Melekor said thoughtfully, “whoever used to share costs with your customer found him so insufferable that they left, and now you’re trying to sign me up to take that poor, unfortunate sod’s place,” he grinned at Quark, “Am I very far from the truth?” Quark laughed nervously.

“Haha! Always so smart, aren’t you? You’re not too far from the truth indeed, but actually, it so happened to be the other way around. It would seem like Vulcans and Dopterians don’t make for a very good match after all,” he shrugged.

Meanwhile, Julian had decided to tell Garak more about how Humans went about adoption, and that some felt a stronger urge than others to seek out their biological roots. “There was a time before organs could be replicated,” he explained sincerely, “you’d actually need to track down a donor who were your exact match. If you were lucky enough to find one, you’d still ran the risk of rejection – quite horrifying, isn’t it? How so many things laid in the hands of luck.” But Garak wasn’t listening, and Julian threw a quick glance over his shoulder to try and figure out what his Cardassian comrade was fishing after, if not him. It didn’t take long to draw the conclusion.

“...And so sometimes we used branches from ancient birch trees to make ribs for people with severe secondary noodle brain,” he bullshitted an attention test as he turned back to Garak and squinted a little, “You’re not really listening, are you?” Garak wasn’t, as a matter of fact, and while his brain had, and enough so that he could rewind the doctor’s last words, he unfortunately couldn’t go back far enough to make sense of the conversation. Ribs of birch trees? Secondary what?

“I may have gotten slightly distracted,” he apologized and raised his glass, “The taste of kafun blossom tea does revive some memories,” he blamed it all on the beverage. “And maybe there was a bit of a personal interest; this one, there, does look like he could use a new jacket,” he nodded towards the newcomer who piqued his curiosity.

“Yes, I saw,” noted the doctor, smirking too. He couldn’t blame Garak for his interest in the visitor – it wasn’t every day anyone remotely Cardassian showed up. He guessed that he’d let Garak have the moment. Getting up, he laid a hand on his arm, leaning forward a bit and lowering his voice to a whisper, “If you get bitten again, you know where to find me,” he brightened into an amused chuckle. While a part of Garak regretted the doctor’s premature departure, the other part welcomed it.

“Thank you, I hope this won’t be necessary however,” he returned a complicit smile as the doctor wandered off, and he set his attention on the duo further away.

“So who am I going to share space with?” asked Melekor with increased interest. “The Vulcan, or the Dopterian?”

“Vulcan, Dopterian,” Quark repeated, shrugging. “That is not relevant,” he pressed a finger against the Cardassian’s chest. “You get to be with the best of the two, and that is all that matters.” Melekor had doubts about that – after all, insufferability was in the eye of the beholder. “Now, do you want to visit your quarters right away or…” Quark continued, snapped his fingers and pointed them to his bar, “...would you like something to drink after this long travel?” Looking around at the chaotic surroundings, Melekor made a face and shook his head a bit.

“I’d rather go to the quarters right away, if it’s all the same to you –” he knew it wasn’t; the Ferengi would rather he stayed and paid for a drink or two, but he’d put Quark in the position when he couldn’t really object – “It’s been a long trip, and a lot of people in it.”

“Ah, of course, of course,” Quark nodded. “Be my guest later then, I’ll be pleased to see you again,” he turned around and let the other go. And so did Garak. He knew better than to stalk already.


	2. Day 1 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melekor and Timun meet each other. When some goods intended for smuggling surface in their quarters, the men are faced with two options: reporting to station security, or to Quark's.

The room wasn’t too far from the Promenade, but Melekor still found the walk to be refreshing in its own right. It was true that the Bajorans he passed by were actively either avoiding to look at him, or making sure not to let their attention drift from him, and it disturbed him mildly – especially since it seemed his last hypospray shot was starting to wear off. Thusly, the first thing he did when he entered the (very dark) quarters, was to locate the replicator. There, he fiddled with his bag, got his PADD up and started manually inputting his order into the machine. It took a good while, due to the numerous lengthy names for chemicals he needed, and he was a lot less than pleased when the order was refused. Authorized medical personnel only.

“Well, shit.” Barely resisting the urge to smack the replicator, Melekor instead walked over to the couch, flopped in it and dug around in his bag some more. It was good that he had at least ten doses of his medicine on him, though he’d intended to save them for Cardassia. Inserting one of the tubes into his personal hypospray, he pressed the mouth of the device against his neck, and closed his eyes with a delighted sigh when the hissing sound of the injection reached his ears. Calm seeped back into his mind, along with the numb comfort of feeling only his own, and no one else’s emotions.

He laid there, dozing and unaware of the alien presence in the bedroom to the right side of the living room. Inside, Doctor Timun Lykes was trying to terminate a subspace call home. He smiled as his siblings blabbered joyfully. It was good to see Jabin harboring such energy when he could be so anxious and shut at other times. It felt almost strange, and Timun was struck with the realization that the teenager on screen was starting to look more like a man. Seventeen. And then there was the little girl. Timun couldn’t help a feeling of pride and a sting of pain as he looked at Dziana, eight years younger and even more energetic. Being away from her was harder even. Timun had strongly contributed to raise his siblings in their father’s absence after all, and now he too was leaving… but he’d come back after a year, maybe less.

At last, he could place a goodbye. “You two have a nice day and say hi to mother for me, please. Oh, and Dziana,” he addressed the girl with a smile, “is purple still your favorite color?”

“Galaxy purple, yes,” she politely specified.

“Of course,” Timun nodded. “You two take care of yourselves.” The screen turned black and he took a moment to relax in the darkness of his room. He’d been on the station for a week and it hadn’t been a pleasant one so far. The silence and respite he now enjoyed were welcome. He’d complained to Quark in the morning, after his awkward visit to Garak’s Clothier, but he hadn’t hoped that the Dopterian would actually leave. And certainly not so suddenly, abandoning pretty much all of his belongings while the half-Vulcan was away. Coming back to the mess and emptiness had been bit of a surprise – Timun hadn’t expected him to tire of his company first – but it was welcome. So long as he no longer had to suffer hearing him talk at length about _what he did in the holosuite_ , any outcome was fine. Having to clean up the living room on his own was a small price to pay for peace.

With a sigh, he stretched himself and finally got up and out of his room, and into the dark living room. He was about to order the computer to turn the light up to sunrise setting when he was startled by the presence of the other man on the couch. He could barely discern him, but noticed he was asleep and figured Quark must already have found someone new to rent the other room. Not wishing to startle the other, Timun knocked on the door behind his back to hopefully awake him gently, and cleared his throat a bit.

“Hello…?” he stepped forth and the other started to move at once, gathering himself in a better composure and sitting up, “I am Timun Lykes, I suppose you must be my new roommate?” the doctor smiled hesitantly.

“My apologies,” Melekor too cleared his throat – even then, his voice had turned a bit croaky due to the surprise – “it was so dark in here, I assumed no one was home,” he brushed at his clothes to flatten them a bit before answering, “Yes, Quark assisted me; I’m Melekor Kel,” he introduced himself, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Where can I sleep?”

“In the room I don’t occupy,” Timun gestured toward the other door, left to the entrance. He ordered the computer to turn the lights on and stood in silence a second, squinting a bit through his glasses, not entirely sure how to proceed next. He hadn’t expected to have a Cardassian for roommate, but that was probably welcome. He thought to warn him that it was still messy in that room, but didn’t have the time as Melekor thanked him and headed for it already. And instead of the warning, Timun blurted out something entirely different.

“You are only the second Cardassian I have the chance to meet,” he said factually. “Have you arrived from Cardassia? I don’t think I heard of any vessel coming from there lately but… I can’t be aware of everything of course,” he moved his fingers a bit nervously with the last words. Slowly, Melekor turned back to him, musing on what he should answer this time. Over the years, he’d made it a sport to answer any questions regarding his origin in a ridiculous manner, but in this case, he wasn’t sure he wanted to start the relation joking at the other’s expense.

“I came with the public transport from Trill,” he answered in honesty, “Come to think of it,” he realized, “I think you did too. Only, that was a week ago, wasn’t it?” Those glasses the other had were an easy detail to remember. His coat too, Vulcan in its cut but with something Trillian about the patterns printed on the red fabric and the gold lining bordering the collar and sleeves. As he looked at him some more, he became certain he’d seen the man before. He was fairly sure he’d served him plomeek soup that day, since he’d replaced Savras for serving, as she’d been ill then. Timun looked at the man some more as well.

“I did,” he nodded. “Were you…” he squinted, overlaying memories and playing with his glasses again, “Did you have something covering your face? I must have taken you for a Bajoran then – I mean no offense, of course,” he added quickly, remembering that Cardassians and Bajorans weren’t exactly on good terms. “I haven’t met a lot of Bajorans either. Not in a… personal way, at least.” It did sound like a strange thing to say while on a station crowded mostly by their kind, but the other would probably understand. Melekor assumed it meant his new acquaintance kept a lot to himself. And it was welcome; introvertism was a personality trait he could appreciate, in a roommate.

“I hope our Bajoran customers assumed the same,” he answered courteously as he relaxed and leaned against the door frame. “Was the plomeek soup to your liking?” he asked further, attempting to keep the rather awkward conversation going.

“It wasn’t the worst replicated food I ever got to taste, and better than what I expected from a shuttle serving,” Timun replied in sheer honesty, yet trying to phrase himself mindfully. “I would say it was acceptable in its own right, if you forget it didn’t exactly taste like plomeek soup.” He came closer, trying to get a better look at his roommate without staring too much. “I must say you seem like a much more decent person than the one who rented before you, but as such, I should warn you that I did not have time to tidy up his room. He only left this morning and the living room alone kept me slightly busy,” he finally passed the warning.

“I take it that none of your belongings might be found in this room, then?” Melekor gave a backward nod, “That way I can flush it all out an airlock, without the need to meticulously go through it all item by item,” he half-joked with a little chuckle and opened the door. It was indeed quite a mess inside, enough to figure that the bar for being _more decent_ than the previous inhabitant was pretty low.

“I don’t think it’s allowed to flush anything out an airlock,” said Timun (who hadn’t picked on the joke), “but I think Quark might be interested in some of those, if there’s anything else than trash,” he tapped his chin with a curled index. “Are you any good at dealing with Ferengi by any chance?” A smug expression spread over Melekor’s face, and glancing over his shoulder at the mess, it grew even wider.

“Why, yes, quite so, enough to make a good deal,” he jolted from the doorway, “I’ll tell him he can have anything in there, as long as he cleans out the junk,” he went back to the couch, on which he put his shoulder bag, “I bet you he’ll send his brother to do it for him- ah…” he’d hoped to nap some more before any further contact with the outside world, but it seemed fortune had had other ideas for him.

“Rom, I believe the poor fellow is named,” the other man went to the replicator to order some Trillian milk-tea for himself. “If I were you, I would charge him for collecting everything. Quark won’t be fooled in paying before reviewing, but the other might ...and maybe he’ll find his own reward as well.”

“It sounds like you should be the one making this deal instead of I.” In all honesty, he’d gladly pay not to have to hassle with haggling and bartering and cleaning. Melekor sank into the soft embrace of the couch once again, leaning back with a groan. Sharing quarters was one thing, sharing it with someone he didn’t know was something else, and sleeping, unguarded, with the very same, well, that was even worse. How did normal people tolerate the anxiety?

Timun took his cup and turned to the other, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” he mumbled as an answer to the question, “I was hoping I could sleep,” he confessed, finally. Now he was wondering if he’d actually manage to sleep at all for the following nights.

“Suit yourself,” Timun nodded. He knew he could have offered his bed, but he knew far too well that offering too much to a stranger never did him any good on the long run. “If you plan on sleeping on the couch, I could make a quick inventory of your room’s content in your stead ...When you are rested, I assume you’ll be hungry. I’ll gladly let you offer me a more decent serving of plomeek soup if the deal works for you,” he proposed.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep with you around,” Melekor threw the other a quick glance, then rubbed his hands together and yawned, “but I’ll try,” he continued with a sigh. “Do you not find it... unsettling... to sleep in the presence of people you don’t know?” Timun gave it a thought.

“No, I’m more unsettled by some people I _do_ know. But a bit of discipline is usually enough to ease it off,” he went to Melekor’s room, looking back at him from the threshold. “Would you rather I be very silent, or just noisy enough that you can know I am still in there rather than possibly trying to sneak upon you to murder you?”

“What’s to say you wouldn’t be noisy first, and then silent once I fall asleep?” The Cardassian only half-joked, then sighed and melted some more in the couch. Paranoia was a somewhat foreign concept to Betazoids, for it was very difficult to be paranoid when you could sense the intentions of others. The only reason his mother could relate to him was because she could sense what he felt – but that was also the full extent of her understanding. She always did insist that his wariness laid in his Cardassian blood, and unfortunately she failed to offer any advice other than that. Still, no matter whether Timun had decided to be noisy or silent, Melekor must have fallen asleep at some point, because, otherwise, it would have been impossible for him to wake up – stiff and with a disgusting flavour in his mouth. It really wasn’t pleasant at all to ascend from the soft bolsters of sleep into the nasty, bright, cold gusts of the waken world.

“Oh,” yeah, he was there, on Deep Space Nine, “Good…” What time was it? At least Timun hadn’t murdered him.

## * * *

So far, so good, Timun thought. Melekor was a good trade for Emcqay, and the Dopterian’s mess seemed to actually contain some interesting goods that the man left in his hurry. Timun found two strips of latinum in the bed, which he kept for himself. A few PADDs were found in a bag, containing unsigned contracts for self-sealing stem bolts. Interesting, the Vulcan thought to himself. Those could be worth their weight in latinum, or so he’d heard. He spent a moment reading another PADD of a design he’d never seen before and made of a nice orange color (although Timun preferred it to be pink), and containing interesting information about Brentalia, and more specifically, its famous zoo – “ _Come discover the nestling home of the Alpha and Beta quadrants’ endangered species! Admire the flight of Yridian buvals and pet the Kryonian tiger cubs! Become one with nature!_ ” Timun read, wondering if by ‘becoming one with nature’ the text suggested one would end up eaten alive. Amused, he kept the touristic PADD for himself as well.

A skittering noise coming from a poorly-adjusted panel then caught his attention, and upon inspection of the panel (which gave way to the likes of an air conduit), he found a crate with three carefully-packed bottles inside.

“Nine lives of a symbiont,” Timun swore threw his teeth. He’d seen this kind of liquid before, and he knew it meant problems of the bad sort. And instead of considering to simply _report_ the problematic bottles to Station Security, the doctor opened a com channel to Quark’s, and, one thing leading to another, Rom was the one who ended up  baited by the promise of a business opportunity. The Ferengi soon rang at the quarters’ door, startling the Cardassian in the entrance. Melekor opened the door however, although still half-awake, and simply assumed that the little man had come to get rid of the junk.

“The ...junk?” Rom repeated, unsure of what it all meant, and feeling like his profit might be… small.

“Here,” Timun reappeared to lead him to Melekor’s room. He closed the door behind them and led him to the crate, not opening it yet. “I expect we conduct this fast and with all the discretion that can be expected from Quark,” he told.

“Actually I’m R-”

“Your latinum is all I am interested in,” Timun cut off. “Now. How much for this?” he revealed the content of the box.

“Oh… but…” Rom stared with complete surprise. “This is Romulan Ale!”

“Are you buying it or not?”

“Where’d you get it?” Rom waddled on place.

“Are you paying for it or should I call security to inform that you’ve been smuggling prohibited spirits in civilian quarters?” Timun made his terms clearer.

“What!? But we did nothing such! For once, I swear, it wasn’t I nor my brother!”

“Ten strips of latinum each,” Timun pressed his offer.

“Oh, that’s way too much. I say, uh, five each,” the Ferengi shook his head. “I don’t have this much however.”

“That is not possible,” Timun bent forward. “Are you a Ferengi or not? Shall I go and tell that Quark doesn’t have a profit?”

“Please, don’t! This is not true, and my brother would kill me!” Rom begged, shaking his hands and curling his fingers into fists.

“Then you bring me the latinum. Six strips per bottle. You have until tonight,” Timun settled the deal. “Off with you now!” In a second, Rom was gone and Melekor came into the room to see what had caused him to flee like that, staring at the crate’s content, then reviewing the image memory when what he’d caught a glimpse of disappeared under the lid.

“What was that?” he asked, still uncertain of what he’d seen.

“Stuff,” Timun answered. “You certainly do not want to know,” he closed the crate with care, “unless you like trouble, and to see it multiply like tribbles. I personally don’t,” he told truthfully. Melekor remained thoughtful for a while and then, with utmost care, cleared his throat.

“If it’s so much trouble, maybe we should inform the station’s security,” he suggested helpfully, to also share his view on how to do things properly, “that’s what they are there for.” Timun looked at him.

“Do you, a Cardassian, really want to inform security officers of a Bajoran space station that you have Romulan Ale in your quarters?” – So it _was_ Romulan ale! A distinct look of shock flushed over Melekor’s face, dissipating almost as quickly as it had come.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I?” he answered back, with extra thorns to go with it, “I didn’t do anything wrong, and Bajorans are perfectly decent people. You are the one who want to pawn it off to Rom, which, by the way, is illegal!”

According to Timun, he was only reminding the Ferengi of what illegal material they had in their rented quarters, in a way Ferengi would understand (Rule of Acquisition number 59: _free advice is seldom cheap_ ). Melekor opted not to fuel the discussion into an argument although he was slightly worried that, if Cardassian authorities were to learn of this, they’d use it as an excuse to decline him passage. And that. That would be very, very unfortunate.

“What about we go eat someplace public?” he asked instead, “Someplace that serves your Vulcan soup – you no doubt know of the station’s restaurants better than I, so I will let you choose the establishment.”

“This sounds fine,” Timun agreed. “If that works for you, I’d like to refresh myself a bit before going.” He gave the other’s hair a look. “And maybe you wish to do same.”

“Sure…” Melekor rubbed his chest thoughtfully and receded back into himself, pulling his hand through his hair a couple of times before picking his bag, unfolding his mirror and staring at himself. He looked exactly and precisely like a severely fucked up Cardassian who had only barely survived some wild animal’s assault. A groan escaped him. It’d take hours to repair the damage. “Ah, no,” he closed the mirror with a clapping sound, and opted to pull his hood over his head instead. Not only was it quick and easy, it also gave him a false feeling of safety which, even though it was false, was satisfying enough.

## * * *

They left the quarters and went along the Promenade. It was the end of evening already, and some shops were closing. The alleyways were less crowded, and all in all, it felt more comfortable.

“So, you are from Trill?” Timun asked as they sat at the Replimat – he’d suggested that or the Klingon Deli, but Melekor had turned blank at the second suggestion, prompting him to go for the first choice. “I’d never heard of Cardassians living there,” he continued, “but it’s not so small a planet of course. I must admit I am quite interested in Cardassian society. It does seem like a model of success from what I have read,” he tried to be polite although he felt very awkward. It was quite the guided question, built on assumptions, with backup assumptions that were very unlikely to be correct. Melekor noticed but did his best to provide Timun with a pleasant dinner experience, politely smiling at his dining partner and chatting along.

“I studied on Trill for quite some years, correct,” he answered in modesty, “Psychology,” he clarified, then shook his head, “I considered becoming a counselor; that is, until I figured out that I don’t exactly have the face for it,” he outlined his scaly features with his fingers then put his hands in his lap, “so I went into mechanics instead. I’m very good at it.”

“Fascinating,” Timun acknowledged with appreciation. He tried not to let the emotion show through a lot, as he knew far too well how his enthusiasm could easily come off as aggressive. “I’m actually quite interested in psychology as well; I followed some courses while studying medicine. Unfortunately they weren’t matching my interests so much. I wanted to learn about emotions rather than trauma and illnesses. I hold more knowledge in neurophysiology, but again, I’m taking a break from being a doctor.” He gave a sorry smile. “Maybe I should have gone into mechanics too. Machines can be as frustrating as people, but they are logical at least. Although I must admit that my sister seems to have all the talent I lack for this, and more!” A mixture of a snort and a chuckle escaped Melekor.

“I wish,” he muttered in regards to the ‘logical’ aspect, then diverted the topic from himself, “What are you interested in becoming, if not a doctor?”

“Some kind of… scientific reporter,” Timun picked. “Or maybe just cultural reporter. I’m not exactly sure. All I know is that I want to learn more about Cardassian society and how they function, both as individuals and ...in matter of interpersonal relationships. Visit various places of their homeworld if I can, though the procedures for this are… obscure and discouraging to say the least,” he pinched his lips. “Have you ever been there yourself?” The non-assumption made Melekor’s situation a bit less comfortable. He had little will to tell about how he wasn’t a Cardassian citizen, nor how he had never visited Cardassia or any of its worlds. Too many questions, too much curiosity.

“If you want to be a reporter, Cardassia would be a poor choice for your studies,” he drawled instead, “If, against all common sense, they’d let you operate there, I am pretty sure they’d censor everything of value before your content reaches your publishers.” He smiled sheepishly – he had his mother to thank for this insight. She never failed to remind him how many forms she had to sign prior to her mission, though neither did she fail to reminiscence on how her readership must have risen by at least ten percent, due to her newfound Cardassian audience (even if they _were_ all editors and juridical roles).

“I do get such a feeling,” Timun nodded. “I think my quest might be more personal than altruistic at this point however. Seeking answers to personal endeavours,” he kept vague. “And you? Do you have any plans? How long do you think you might stay here on the space station?”

“That, I’m afraid, is impossible to say,” Melekor stirred his soup a bit, “It all depends on when I get a certain message, and what will be in it. Ah,” he shrugged, “I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it too much. But let’s just say that you won’t have to worry about finding a new roommate anytime soon.” The Vulcan-Trill nodded.

“That’s good enough for me. You seem like an interesting person, and so long as you don’t insist in telling me what you do in the holosuite and keep our quarters tidy, it should go all fine.” Melekor would have preferred not to have been seen as ‘interesting’, but he comforted himself with the assumption that it was probably the other’s very Vulcan way of trying to be polite.

When they left, he contemplated whether he should pay the medical bay a visit, but decided that he might as well get to that the following day instead.

“I don’t know about you, but I really feel like winding down and heading to bed. It’s been an awfully long day and- ah, I’d rather not be there while you and Rom have another heart-to-heart.”

Timun chuckled at that. Should he tell him that he didn’t sleep every night? Maybe not the best idea, considering how paranoid the other already was. He didn’t wish to turn him insomniac and would welcome the calm of the night to keep on practicing his Kardasi and try to remember the Code of Alien Conduct – or try to make some sense out of it, at least.

 

When they entered the room, however, the taller man darkened. Rom had been searching for the crate of Romulan Ale and found it just not-in-time-enough that he couldn’t really explain why he was standing right behind the door, holding it in his arms. The Ferengi smiled, though the rest of his expression was one of panic, pleading for mercy.

“The latinum, Rom. Now,” Timun told wearily, “Or do you want me to call security and your brother? What will they think of you?” In between small cries of a cornered animal, Rom managed to make up his mind.

“I… was only trying to tidy up a bit,” he ensured. “I have your money, really, here,” he put down the crate and proceeded a few strips. Timun counted six.

“Fine. For that price I expect you’ll store two of the bottles in an airlock so we never have to talk about this ever again.”

“What?” Rom made a scandalized face. Then he nodded vigorously, “Oh, yes, as you wish. I’ll take care of them for you, haha!” The Vulcan nodded too. He might pay Garak another visit in due time for a small order. He caught the Ferengi by the lobe however, pinching hard enough to make him squeak repeatedly, but in a spot he knew wouldn’t cause any harm.

“I believe it is the last time you come here uninvited, is that clear? Now, is there something else you were thinking to take with you?”

“No…. I swear, I was only here for the ale. I have no idea what else there would be here to take, ah… Please let go off me, it hurts very much…!”

“Should I?” Timun asked Melekor who contemplated the situation with overall disapproval. “Anything missing?” But before the Cardassian had a chance to answer anything, the crate’s label started to melt _up_ , shaping into a cross-armed Chief of Station Security, also known as Constable Odo, the shapeshifter.

“That’s enough,” he wrangled the half-Vulcan’s hand off of Rom, capturing the Ferengi’s arm in the same movement, “You’re all coming with me” Melekor thought he was going to die, if not from the shock of seeing the shapeshifter there, then at the very least from the shame of being in such a predicament.

“I told him we should go to security!” he burst out, waving a hand in Timun’s direction, “I had nothing to do with this; Timun, tell him!” Odo snorted and made a head movement.

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Come on now,” he grumbled to himself, clearly dictating that there’d be no further accusations, confessions or conversations. At least not until they were back all behind a forcefield. And then, the shapeshifter groveled to himself – he’d have to figure out which legal authorities to contact for each of his prisoners. A good haul, all in all.

## * * *

While Rom wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the security office and the detention area, Melekor and Timun weren’t and never had a wish to become acquainted with the place. The Ferengi paced restlessly in the cell, mumbling to himself while they just sat. The half-Vulcan tried to keep his vivid emotions under control. The half-Cardassian on his behalf felt personally offended by the entire situation and couldn’t help but end up nagging his roommate.

“I hope you are happy,” he snarked at him, “we could have done it my way, we could have reported the illegal goods to the authorities, but no, you had to insist on selling it to Rom -and now what? Do you realize what you've done to me? If this stains my reputation, I swear, you’ll be the one to pay for it, one way or another.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Timun answered bleakly. “At least, we didn’t simply flushed everything out an airlock. Maybe we would have killed the shapeshifter along.” Rom let out a long whine at that.

“If only you’d done that! We wouldn’t be here! And my brother would have a lot less problems!”

“You’d rather we murdered someone?” Timun disapproved.

“No. I didn’t say that,” the Ferengi corrected quickly. “It would just have been a very unfortunate accident with very fortunate consequences. For all of us.”

Timun closed his eyes in hope to simply return to his meditation and avoid letting out the anger. It wouldn’t do much good, really. However, his ears soon couldn’t ignore what ruckus was going on in the security office. Rom too heard it and shuffled toward the forcefield with a bit of eagerness.

“It’s my brother! He’s come to take me out of here because I am innocent!”

“Just because you tell your wishes out loud doesn’t make them come true,” Timun replied. The voice next door was forming into words as the volume of it increased.

“ _Now let me see him and let’s get over with it, Odo! Do you have any idea how much money I’m losing while he’s locked up in here? I will demand financial reparation!_ ”

“Hehe, that is definitely my brother…” Rom chuckled nervously, as to excuse Quark’s words.

 

In the security office, Odo faced the bartender with smug satisfaction.

“Your brother was caught with his arms full of Romulan Ale, a substance which, I am sure you know, is explicitly banned in the Federation.”

“Last time I checked, the station was still in Bajoran space,” the Ferengi pointed.

“Indeed, but the Federation hopes for Bajor to join in, and so we wouldn’t want to allow dealings that will end up _in_ the Federation. We both know how it goes.”

“Then you know Starfleet officers themselves crave for it. Face it, Odo, you’re just trying to pin it on my brother to get to me.”

“I’m afraid what illegal business goes on within Starfleet isn’t the matter here, and _my_ only business is to prevent it,” he smiled sweetly at the other. “Tell me Quark,” he cleared his throat, even though it wasn’t necessary, “what do three liters of Romulan Ale go for, these days?”

“Well I can tell you it’s worth well enough for him not to have the first strip of latinum to invest in it,” the Ferengi snorted. “And if there were Romulan Ale on this station, _I_ would be the first to know about it. And you the second,” he reckoned. “If I wasn’t the first, then it’s no Romulan Ale and my brother did nothing wrong. Are you certain it’s not Andorian Ale, rather? Can I… see the evidence?”

“I know what it’s worth, Quark,” Odo barked, leaning forwards in a more imposing posture than before, “and I know Rom doesn’t have the latinum. But I know who does, and who has the means and contacts to get rid of such merchandize…”

“Well, indeed,” Quark scoffed. “But if I had known of this, it would already be sold and this is not the case, which I find particularly infuriating. If someone’s trying to concurrence me, I demand to know who that is. I’ve heard you have two other suspects. Why don’t you ask them instead of pestering me and my brother, when we are clearly innocent? ...And I almost wish we were not,” he groaned with regret, making a mental note for himself to acquire some of that liqueur someday. “Romulan Ale… Can I at least _see_ it?”

“Certainly not,” Odo countered with a smug expression, “but you can see that clueless brother of yours,” he finally admitted, letting himself and Quark into the next room and walking him over to the cell.

“Brother!” Rom exclaimed instantly, “I knew you’d get me out of here. I did nothing wrong, I swear!”

“We’ll discuss that later,” Quark waved his hand, turning to Odo instead. “Well, he says he’s innocent and I say the same. Now why are those two there as well?” he gestured at the others and gave them a slightly puzzled look. “Is it… in their quarters you pretend that ale was found?”

“Indeed, and it didn’t take long for your brother Rom to obtain it,” Odo answered in an almost bored tone, “An encrypted communication took place between their quarters and your facility, Quark. If you’d care to explain that.”

“In my facility? You mean _my_ bar?” Quark repeated with indignation.

“I called,” Timun spoke, going over the events. Melekor just watched silently as the conversation kept on going back and forth between Odo, Timun and Rom. He didn’t want to lie, on the off chance that Odo was also an empath and could pick up on it, but he didn’t want to squander the easy escape either. It was a slim chance, but he was quite sure it’d get even slimmer if he didn’t simply keep to himself in his little corner.

“Wait, you cannot possibly pin it on my brother so lightly!” Quark protested when Odo ended up mentioning a DNA test on the crate.

“It was not my property!” echoed Rom. “If it were, why would I hide it in a place as stupid as an air conduit!? Those get ransacked by Starfleet officers each time there is some kind of invasion on the station; it’s highly unsafe to store anything in there,” he argued.

“I think that crate was abandoned by the Dopterian who lived there before, which he must have left behind because he suddenly found himself in greater troubles than being found with bottles of Romulan Ale. He should be your suspect in this investigation, not us,” Timun told, crossing his arms. He was starting to have enough of this. “Now can we go or not? I was attempting to form a bond of friendship with my new roommate, and all this is quite detrimental to it, really.”

As much as Odo would have liked to get Quark for a crime, this time, it actually made more sense than not, that he was innocent.

“I actually believe you,” he looked at Timun, “the preliminary scan only revealed three DNA traces; Rom’s, a Dopterian and a Vulcan-Trill. Yours,” he specified then laid a hand on the panel, gesticulating to Melekor, “You can leave,” he set him free but held a hand up to Timun and Rom. “Handling stolen goods, furthermore ones intended for smuggling, is still a crime,” he sang sweetly with a hint of a smile, reactivating the forcefield as soon as the Cardassian had left, “I take it you stand under Trill jurisdiction, Mister Lykes? From what I understand, the punishment ranges between a mere fee, to two months in prison. I suggest you start preparing your defense.” Timun held his breath a moment, trying to keep very still before resuming to breathing deeper. Melekor cleared his throat a little.

“And what about me?” he dared ask, “Can I leave the station?”

“Not until this investigation is closed. You are needed as a witness.”

“But…” The way Odo looked at him was enough to shut him up.

“I believe we are done here -and Quark,” the Constable looked sternly at him, “please do continue to emerge in this. I would love to add one or two sentences to your name, too.”

“To do that, you’d need to twist the truth, and we both know it would go against your sense of justice,” the Ferengi gave him a smug look. “I’m sorry Odo, but you won’t get me into this one. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in my bar,” he turned his back and left.

“And what about me? Can I go?” Rom hurried to ask, “I need to get back to work or my brother will cut that off my wage!”

“Please, let him go,” Timun agreed. “Or put one of us in another cell before I hurt him by accident.” He could feel the tension rising inside his chest and radiating through his body, as if his organs were twisting inside and spasming. A desire to scream was building in his lungs and throat, and he knew it would then turn into something more aggressive and harder to repress. It was one of those moments in which placing emotional locks was more tedious than usual.

“Very well,” Odo sighed, deactivating the forcefield and catching Rom by the arm, “I’ll give you your own cell.” He locked Timun’s section again, and threw Rom into one of his own.

Melekor looked over Timun for a moment, as if trying to say something, then decided that he’d better leave as well, before Odo changed his mind about letting him go. Upon exiting the security office, he contemplated catching Quark and talking about what in the world just happened, but figured that it might seem suspicious, so he headed to his empty quarters instead, where he spent the rest of the night trying to sleep. He _did_ feel bad. If he hadn’t resigned so easily to Timun’s bad idea, none of this would have happened. It was his fault, really, and during the early hours of the day, he even contemplated turning himself in. Surely he too must be guilty, seeing as he should have turned the liquid in even when Timun refused. But instead, after a while of tossing and turning in bed, slumber claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hesitate to let us know how you felt about this development and about the characters! (or anything else, truly!)


	3. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Julian eagerly welcomes he visit of a half-Cardassian patient in sickbay, his fully-Cardassian friend Garak isn't about to indulge him in a same visit ...despite the pain inflicted by his implant.

## Day 2

 

Morning came, and breakfast came along for Melekor. He ate alone in the sofa, taking care to keep crumbs from falling into it, and to put his dishes back in the replicator. It was only a matter of time before Timun would be back, and he didn’t feel like pissing him off after all that time in the cell.

Timun would get off easy, he was certain – a fee, at the very worst a week of symbolic imprisonment – and Rom likely wouldn’t suffer any consequences at all. Ferengi law probably didn’t give many fucks about what happened on a far away space station anyway.

 

When Melekor decided to leave the room and explore the station, it was mostly out of boredom. The time was eleven-something, and people were cruising the Promenade in a trouble-free haze.

He went to the infirmary, where he showed one of the nurses his prescription. She passed him on to one of the more expertized doctors, one Julian Bashir, who either was overly-friendly to all his patients, or particularly intrigued to see someone with Cardassian physique. He wouldn’t be the first to find Melekor’s body to be a thing of study, but that didn’t mean Melekor intended to indulge him.

“Doctor Selek,” mused Bashir as he went over the prescription, “why, I thought he retired,” he continued.

“He made an exception,” Melekor told with little joy.

“I can understand why!” exclaimed Bashir with more intrigue than what was proper for bedside manners, “I’ve never seen this configuration before, phelenaxinide-”

“It’s a psilosynine blocker,” Melekor was tired of explaining the case to every doctor he met, and had to admit he’d been looking forward to simply replicating his dosage.

“I know,” Julian got serious as he leaned on the examination slab. “These levels of friosinine are normally enough to kill a humanoid your size,” he told further – Melekor shrugged, “Have you ever considered going off your medication? There’s nothing here that indicates it’s a vital substance. You could live a full life without it.” Finally, Melekor’s shell broke, and he let out a sharp, joyless laughter.

“I be alive, yes, but I’d hardly call it a full life!”

“I’m sure with the right therapy, you could learn to handle your Betazoid side. There are many half-betazoids out there who-”

“With all due respect,” he had to calm himself, “I’ve spent the best part of my adolescence trying to get to terms with my condition. Phelenaxinide is the only thing that’s helped so far.”

“Ah I see, but, _ as your physician _ , I’m obligated to inform you of other options – this is an extremely lethal drug, Mister Kel. There’s no telling what it does to the rest of your body, not to mention your brain. So I really must strongly advise you to consider a more restrictive use.”

“But you’re not going to refuse me my medication?”

“No,” Bashir admitted, “and additionally, I would advise against any abrupt quitting. If anything,  _ that _ could seriously harm you, perhaps even kill you.” He placed a case of ten tubes in Melekor’s lap, eyeing him over with sincerity, “I’d like you to come in tomorrow for a more thorough analysis. I might be able to help you in ways Selek could not; science has come far since then, and,” he boasted, “I’m amongst the best there is.”

As Melekor finally was allowed to leave and neared the door out, Bashir remembered something.

“It might interest you to know, there is another Cardassian on the station; Garak. He owns a tailor shop on the Promenade. I am sure he wouldn’t mind a visit; he very rarely gets the opportunity to sell his clothes to those he model them after.”

##  * * *

Garak had closed his shop for lunch time slightly earlier than usual, and was waiting outside the infirmary when the doctor came out.

“Doctor Bashir,” he greeted him, “I was wondering if, by any chance, you weren’t in a mood to indulge me some more about the way your people used to craft ribs out of ancient birch trees ...while having lunch,” he proposed very innocently. Julian wasn’t late to recall what they had been discussing, and flared up in a thoughtful smile.

“As I recall it, you weren’t very interested in that topic,” he answered, “but dinner sounds like an excellent plan to me; I’m starving!”

“Starving!? I hear that can be a very lethal condition, so let us not waste time,” Garak teasingly led the way to the Replimat. “So how has your day been?” he asked. It was easy to tell he knew part of the answer already, the way his eyes shone with a bit of cunning. “Anything interesting to challenge your part-Vulcan discovery from yesterday?”

“One-sixth-Vulcan,” Julian précised, and then made a nonplussed shrug, “It’s been unusually calm, O’Brien dislocated his shoulder canoeing, I’ve distributed the new Tamarian flu vaccine and... ah, yes,” he burst a little with enthusiasm as they reached the queue to the Replimat, “your Cardassian friend came by to see me. I told him he should visit your shop, of course.”

“How attentionate of you, Doctor,” the tailor grinned. “We’ll see if he shows up.” He took his lunch from the replicator then turned to Julian. “Do you think my prices are too high?” he asked quite suddenly. Julian grabbed his meal as well, contemplating the answer.

“No,” he answered after a while, but there was a shadow of concern on his face, “but maybe I’m not the one you want to sell to. In which case, I really wouldn’t know. Business bad for you?” Garak sat and tapped the table’s edge before grabbing his cutlery.

“I wouldn’t say so, but I wouldn’t ignore either that we have a little fluctuation. The recent events have people a little more on their guard, I suppose. The Maquis isn’t the Circle, but for some, it’s all the same. A hint of resemblance is often all it takes to jump to conclusions, and this is often detrimental to business indeed.” He took a sip from his cup. He felt slightly dizzy and the world turned grey for a second, but he kept on staring at where he knew the doctor was, trying to overlay the mental picture of him. When this failed, he just took a breath in hope oxygen was all he needed to make the dizziness pass. Julian noticed and squinted – the way Garak’s pupils were retracting wasn’t normal.

“Is something the matter, Garak?” he asked carefully while leaning forwards in his seat, “Garak?

“Hm?” Garak smiled as if wondering what was the worry, “I was just thinking. I could make a promotional offer, but it might undermine my reputation, maybe. Lowering the price could give the idea I might be lowering my skills too. However, if I give away the discount to the Bajoran fund for war orphans, it would probably be more charitable and positive. It worked well for Quark, I believe. What do you think?” The haze was finally dissipating. Julian frowned.

“I think you should go to the infirmary and see me if it gets any worse,” he shared his personal opinion on his friend’s health instead –  Garak nodded though he had no intention to let Julian hold a tricorder in his direction anytime soon. “And it’s a very lovely idea,” the doctor went back on topic, “very generous of you. You really think it’d help?”

“It would be an interesting experience,” the tailor grinned as he started to actually consider the idea. He couldn’t figure what about it was the most ludicrous. That he’d actually do it and torture himself into lowering his prices to sell a craftsmanship that most people couldn’t even appreciate, or that he might actually enjoy it beyond the effects of the implant. “A little sacrifice is always necessary for a greater good to emerge. Talking about sacrifice, I think I know of a book you might enjoy if you wish to delve further into Cardassian literature. The title is  _ The Never-Ending Sac- _ ” he suddenly froze, feeling a searing pain in his head while his heartbeat increased at once. The sides of his vision were getting blurry and distorted. He kept his calm still, but got up.

“You must forgive me, Doctor, but I just saw one of my good clients passing by, and I need to hand her a dress before her ship departs in only a few minutes.”

That said, he strode off without caring to take away his plate and mug. The doctor’s doctor instincts were tingling, and he got up almost as fast as Garak, hurrying after him.

“A visit to the infirmary isn’t going to hurt you, Garak,” he caught the Cardassian’s arm, but still kept his pace, “You must let me help you.”

“Hahaha,” Garak chuckled, “I know you’d love to have two Cardassians in your infirmary today and I am certain it would please you, but I must go, really,” he insisted. “But don’t worry, this lunch is only postponed,” he put his hand on the other’s forearm, “and I intend to continue our conversation.” A shadow was now creeping on the right side of his vision field. “Until then, take care of yourself, Doctor,” he suggested kindly before hurrying away.

As much as he wanted to, Julian knew there weren’t enough symptoms of whatever-Garak-was-suffering-from to warrant forced admission, and so, he had to watch his friend disappear out of sight, helplessly. He knew one thing, however: Garak knew what was wrong, and his Cardassian pride could well be the death of him. Much less enthusiastic, the doctor headed back to his dinner table, feeling especially dejected at the sight of Garak’s full plate. It really did feel like he was having lunch with a ghost.

 

Meanwhile, in the (very) relative intimacy of his own shop, Garak took a seat by the replicator in the backroom, trying to figure out a way to get a painkiller potent enough to fix his migraine. He was disappointed to find that for some absurd reason, he didn’t have the security level to access the Cardassian recipes he’d painstakingly retrieved from the system memory, time ago.

“And I know just  _ who  _ I have to thank for it,” he sighed to himself. In a way, the thanks were about genuine. If he was right about the cause of the migraine, then he deserved this pain. He’d only avoided his fate for so long… and what did that tell of him? Doctor Timot had warned him against playing with that implant. He’d warned him against seeking pleasure from it too when Garak found he could get those happy jolts from the fear, anxiety, sadness and moral pain of others. It had turned interrogations into a blissful experience, and the glimmer it brought to his eyes had been known to terrify his prisoners and hasten confessions too. But that was a lifetime ago.

With a sigh of renouncement, he ordered more usual painkillers, in as much quantity as he could get before finding there was a threshold, of course. He considered whether he should hack the system to bypass it or not, thoughtfully drinking from his cup while trying to figure the pros and cons. On the pro side, he could do it. On the con side, he couldn’t because he was now about blind on the entire right side of his sight, and the rest was too blurry to do any sort of programming.

##  * * *

Melekor hadn’t thought much about Doctor Bashir’s invitation-by-proxy at first. He’d spent hours of that day taking a well-needed sonic shower, bothering with his hopelessly Cardassian hair and trying to read up on the latest tech manuals. But as the day progressed and he sat alone in the couch again, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Normally he would’ve taken the opportunity to know his roommate better, and it was perhaps this expectation that made the loneliness offensive.

Careful to bring the bag containing his medicine with him (because, obviously, you never knew if you’d get arrested), he headed out into the social world again. He was only distantly aware that the end of the afternoon was approaching, and that he was due for another dosage, but it was an easy fact to put on the back-burner. He wanted his prescriptions to last as long as possible after all.

Once he entered the Cardassian tailor shop, he was instantly quite fascinated by the garments in there. He’d never really seen anything sewn for his kind, at least outside of military wear. These? They were quite beautiful, radiant even, and he could very much appreciate the attention to detail as well as the materials, which felt sleek under his fingertips. Eventually he caught a glimpse of the shop’s inhabitant, and studied him from a distance. He’d never seen another Cardassian up close like this before, and it struck him that Garak was much shorter than he’d expected a full-blooded Cardassian to be – they were about the same height, actually. It was, in a sense, a relief, as if he’d finally found out that he was normal, albeit never having realized he’d yearned for normalcy. Something was wrong, though. Oh, Garak looked perfectly fine, sure. But there were hints of something else that broke through Melekor’s deteriorating defense against his empathic abilities; a discomfort. Likely some kind of pain, akin to his mother’s monthly pain, but most probably located somewhere else.

“Can I get you something?” he finally asked sincerely. Garak almost startled at that – with the tinnitus now back on top of other symptoms, he’d not heard nor seen his customer entering.

“Most certainly,” he chimed an answer, trying not to let pain show through his voice. “Let us see, how may I be of any help?” he came closer, trying to identify just what had crossed his door. “Oh, now this is a most appreciated visit,” he rubbed his hands together shortly, holding them near his torso. Melekor smiled weakly as he could tell the last part was true to some extent at least. It was a bit unsettling how capable he was on picking up Garak’s signals, and he instantly wished he’d injected himself back in his room. If he did it now, it’d bring up questions, and he had no intention of talking about his issues with others, least of all with another Cardassian.

“Doctor Bashir implied you’d feel that way,” he started out the conversation, still feeling awkward in that he had to ignore the elephant in the room – an animal which was growing bigger the longer he stood there, “and it so happens I am in need for someone who knows how to sew for a Cardassian -I’m sorry this really isn’t working for me,” he’d spoken faster and faster, until he reached the point where he couldn’t continue, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he quickly found a private corner of the room, fiddled some with the hypospray and, after what felt like several minutes, managed to unleash the snakelike sound on his neck, closing his eyes and sighing in relief before jolting back. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

Garak stared at him for a second. He might have tinnitus, yes, but that sound, in this moment, he couldn’t have unheard it. While he didn’t know what was in the boy’s hypospray, a part of him was almost tempted to ask to try it. Yet, he nodded and tried to reconnect to the discussion.

“Doctor Bashir,” he smiled as he spoke the name his customer had mentioned. “Of course. He told me he’d recommended me to a patient, but I wasn’t ...expecting ...so soon,” he moved his hands a bit when words were difficult to find. “Are you in any hurry?” His mind raced ahead a little, questioning the possibility to somehow get the other to get medicine from Julian for him. Catching himself with such a ridiculous thought, he coughed a little, offended with himself like rarely ever for quite some time now. To trust a stranger? A Cardassian moreover? Or well, Cardassian enough to put a warning sign on him.

“I’m in no hurry, no,” Melekor answered. “Odo detained my roommate so I’m just waiting for him to hopefully be released at some point,” he admitted, then shook his head, “Are you addicted to something? You seem to be in a great deal of pain.” he finally pressed, tired of ignoring the at-this-point enormous elephant. Simply getting rid of what he’d sensed wasn’t enough for it to go away in reality, and his conscience was nagging at him.

“And what would make you imagine such a thing?” Garak simply asked, acting amused, although the smirk and chuckle rather allowed him to let out a bit of pain and stress.

“Because I’ve been addicted to a chemical called phelenaxinide for nearly ten years now, and I know what withdrawal symptoms look like and feel like,” Melekor answered bluntly. In moments like these, Melekor leaned back on advice from his mother: if they don’t trust you, trust them until they return the favour; amongst others. Most of her advice worked best on Betazed, and it had always been a bit of a mystery to Melekor how she had not only survived Cardassia, but also flourished there. And found love, of all things – or at least that’s how she told it. He had to question how much love there was in a relationship, when one part kept a child from the other, and forbade said child to ever seek out their other parent. Then he added, “It’s either that or menstruation. Which I guess isn’t impossible.”

“Well, that’s an interesting story, and an even more interesting hypothesis,” the tailor replied, trying to hold himself. “I must admit I had never conceived myself as you suggest.” He gave a more pinched smile. “Now do you happen to be looking for a dress yourself?” he only half-jested.

“Ah, no thank you,” Melekor gently rejected the offer. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t doubt I’d look dashing in a dress, if it were made by you,” he shot back, and then chuckled, “But I doubt I’d wear it well; I’m an engineer,” he added like it explained everything, “I’m looking for something more... I guess, strict. Representative.”

“That’s certainly possi-” Garak didn’t manage to finish that word, trying not to wince. “If you don’t mind…” he went through the back doors to the replicator to get another pill, “I just happen to have a slight headache,” he turned around and came back. “Nothing contagious, mind you, unless you indulge in too many books from ancient Earth, trying to figure what Terrans find so exciting about them.”

The young man opened his mouth to tell Garak that it would be more efficient to just ask Doctor Bashir for something against the pain, but shut it again. It was evident that the other didn’t want his or anyone’s help. And he could respect that, as he felt very much the same – living among Betazoids had given him a unique perspective on lack of integrity.

“If you have a headache, perhaps you would rather talk about this another day. I feel like I’m imposing on your privacy, and it’s making me nervous. Frankly.”

“Very kind of you,” Garak appreciated. He came closer again. “You can come back tomorrow, I am certain this migraine will be gone with the night. The robes on display are good to attract attention, but I enjoy the more utilitary type of clothes just as much. We’ll find something that suits you, you have my word,” he nodded. “Meanwhile, I hope your friend gets out of detention soon ...and that he did nothing too bad to get there. Our Constable is generous when it comes to giving sanctions.”

“I am sure he is,” Melekor agreed a bit sharply. He wasn’t sure whether Garak had been sarcastic or not, and automatically went with the assumption that he was. Slightly offended at his assumed offense, Melekor decided that he would refrain from feeling sorry for him in the future. After all, any Cardassian not on Cardassia surely were away for a reason, and Garak’s reason probably was more substantial than his own.

It was a pity, though.

“I hope your headache gets better, you have a very-” he would’ve said  _ open mind _ , but suspected that Garak wouldn’t only take offense, but also see him as a threat in the future- “sympathetic feeling about you,” he decided to say instead, even though it formed a rather ugly sentence, which made it very obvious he’d meant to say something else. “I'll see you tomorrow, then.” He nodded and backed off, then decided he’d go buy himself one of those Bajoran jumja sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment for the next chapter; it doesn't have to be an entire essay, but if you could spare a few words about anything you liked, it'd be very welcome. Copy-pasting some lines is totally ok as well!


	4. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Julian writhes in Cardassian-induced frustration, Melekor presents a new deal to Garak, one that might help them both get what they need.

## Day 3

Julian’s frustrations over Cardassian nature hadn’t exactly gone dormant by the time he sat down with Garak on the next midday. Not only was Garak refusing help, but the half-Cardassian from the other day had decided not to show up either. That’s what he got for making it optional – anything optional, a Cardassian would opt out of. Garak should’ve taught him that lesson already, and so, half of his anger was directed at himself for somehow being disappointed over the turn out.

“How’s your head today?” he asked as he stabbed his food, fully expecting a “ _perfectly fine, Doctor, as I told you it would be_ ” in return. Garak looked at his friend’s plate before raising his gaze up to the dark eyes above.

“Well, certainly better than your mood,” he noted. “If it would make you anything more enthusiastic, I should thank you for your recommendation. The Cardassian gentleman you saw yesterday did drop by my shop and we set an appointment for today. I expect he will be pleased with his purchase,” he cupped some fish from his stew with a spoon. “I must admit however that I was surprised to see him looking ...not so good, yesterday, when he first came. He had to administer himself some dosage of the treatment you probably prescribed him. Phelenaxinine, he said it was?”

“Phelenaxinide,” Julian corrected Garak before he could think to stop himself. Then he couldn’t help but to smirk. He’d been had. “You Cardassians, you don’t want to go to the doctor, but you’re perfectly fine with snooping on one another’s medical issues out of the infirmary.” He didn’t know whether it was more infuriating or charming. Garak was right, of course, in that while Julian couldn’t tell him the details of a patient, there was nothing that stopped him from delving into the details of the medication itself. Sneaky of him to ask that way, really. Garak smiled and licked his lips quickly before talking.

“Mere curiosity, Doctor. During the Occupation, you expect I’ve gotten to learn of many substances as it was almost war times. I’ve delivered some treatments myself in some occasions, though I assume euthanasia might have been the most common one, so to speak,” he shuffled a little on his chair. “Phelenaxinide however, this does strike me as an odd name. Is it a compound of phelanol and enaxidiol? That doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense, to mix a neurotransmitter enzime with a vasoconstricting drug that only works on Klingons, as far as I know,” he chuckled.

“It’s just a name,” Julian explained, blowing a little on his tea, “It actually contains more components than I’m comfortable with. I am sure it would work just as well with fewer ingredients. I didn’t devise it,” he felt the need to make clear, “and since my patient opted out of optimization, I guess it’ll have to stay that way,” he added the last thing glumly, then continued in a muttering tone: “Resectamine is the active substance, but the main portion of the drug consists of friosinine – don’t ask me how he’s still alive, I couldn’t explain it any better than you,” he sipped his tea, more annoyed than before; his hands were shaking from the revitalized passion and anger. “Don’t get me wrong, it _does_ contain phelanol and enaxidiol, but the levels are so low they might as well just be symbolic. I think Doctor Selek started out with those two and gradually lowered the dosage when he realized they had no real effect,” he blew some air through his nose, “It’s a highly volatile, experimental drug; I’d never administer it to any of my patients. I’d think it works on him solely due to the specific hybrid nature of his constitution. At any rate, I sent Selek a message this morning. If his patient won’t cooperate with me, maybe he will.”

Garak made a O with his mouth. “This is indeed quite disquieting, and I understand better your concerns,” he nodded, figuring there was maybe a way he could somehow get the young man to get drugs for him. “Your patient seemed to hold a special attention to the opinion another fellow Cardassian like me might have of him… maybe I could use this to talk some sense into him. After all, you showed him the way to my shop, it would be fair that I show him the way to the infirmary. And none of us wants a Cardassian dying on the station. Even if it’s only half one…” he gave a pinched smile and resumed to eating.

“Absolutely _out_ of the question!” Bashir shook his head fervently, “If he didn’t trust me before, he’ll probably be even less inclined to do so if he thought I’d told _you_ – or by all means, anyone – of his medical history. No,” he sighed, “I think his former doctor might have more luck than either of us. Besides, _Garak_ ,” he gave him a sharp look that could have been humour, but very clearly held a serious undertone to it, “if you can’t even convince _yourself_ to see me, I doubt you’d be very convincing to anyone else. Least of all someone as paranoid as yourself.”

“If my life were at stake and I thought you could save it, be certain that I would pay you a visit, Doctor,” Garak straightened up a bit and held his hand up for this declaration. “But for a mere headache?” he smiled. “You are far more needed for more dire cases, and I am not completely helpless either.”

“It’s never just a headache,” Julian pressed, but knew it’d be in vain. After all, if Garak wasn’t concerned for his own well-being, then he probably knew what it was – some kind of Cardassian pon’farr or an otherwise too-embarrassing condition to share even with Julian.

“I think I’ve managed to stay alive and healthy quite well even before I had the chance to meet you,” the tailor pointed with amusement. He gave him a fonder look still, “I do appreciate your intention, and I find your determination admirable. Do not blame me for bearing the same determination.”

“Well, when you _do_ end up with something more severe, do make sure to let me know,” Julian patted Garak’s hand, looking into those vivid blue eyes for a while too long, “you won’t get a better doctor than me, and you know it.”

“Oh, I do, Doctor, I do,” Garak patted his hand in return. It was terrifying sometimes. The Cardassian was well-aware that Julian would certainly be capable of figuring out a lot more about his biology than most Federation doctors and exobiologists probably could, and any discovery the young doctor might make would be highly unwelcomed by Central Command. “And believe me, I care for your health and for your life just as much as you do,” he raised his eyeridges a little. “Now, on a completely unrelated topic, I did read this ancient ‘ _Jungle Book_ ’ you recommended me before, and you’ll be pleased to know I even found it entertaining,” he diverted the course of the conversation.

## * * *

“Ah, Quark, my friend! A pleasure to see you again,” the man raised his arms with enthusiasm at the sight of the Ferengi on the Promenade. No such enthusiasm that he’d go as far as attempt a hug, however; he was decent. His Trillian clothes were neat without being anything extravagant, his skin was a mate copper color, and his hair – jet black albeit for the grey strokes at his temples – was brought back down his neck, exposing the typical markings on his forehead. Small wrinkles at the corners of his quick green eyes gave the clue of a man who liked to smile and laugh.

“I hope your trip’s been good and all that, Jaden,” the bartender greeted him politely.

“The trip was nice,” the Trill replied, tagging along with him. “As for ‘all that’, if you mean family; my wife and my two younger kids seem to be fine. And then there’s the elder one. How long has he been detained now?” he followed his friend.

“He spent two nights in there. And so did my brother, thanks to him.”

“I am deeply sorry about that,” the taller man nodded thoughtfully. “Rom must be devastated about all those unworked hours going unpaid.”

“You don’t say!” Quark snorted. “Not that it would make a lot of difference, really, but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I am anything but a cruel man, I would never,” Jaden defended himself with humor. They stopped in front of the security office’s door.

“Ah, it does bring some memories,” the Trill smiled. “Let’s see if Constable Odo improved his ears since last time.”

“Don’t you tease him about that before I get my brother back,” Quark made a face.

“I said I’m not cruel. But come to think of it, I think the true reason why he’s constantly keeping his eye on you must be a fascination for your lobes. Or jealousy.”

“Ha, cut it with that and let’s go,” Quark entered, quickly getting louder. “Odo! I want my brother back, he’s been in there for long enough! Whatever he did, he regrets it and won’t do it ever again.” Jaden followed, grinning and coming in with such easiness one could have thought he owned the place. Odo ignored Quark for the moment, his eyes instead settling on the Trill. _Mynx_.

“Hello, Constable,” the man greeted the shapeshifter. “I’ve come to see my son. Timun Lykes,” he smiled wide and bright. Jaden Mynx was one radiant, confident Trill with some eight lives behind his symbiont.

A distinct expression of disgust settled on the shapeshifter’s face, and he put aside the PADD he’d been reading from, leaning back in his chair. He was tempted offer Mynx to _share_ his son’s cell, but decided he’d wait for the Trill to commit a crime first – it was going to happen eventually anyway.

“I never thought I’d hear _you_ ask me to bring you to detention,” he snarked, unamused. “I take it it’s you he’s inherited his nimble fingers from?” he held up a hand and got to his feet, “Both of you, with me,” he ordered because there was no way he was going to leave Quark alone with his computers. Then he locked the main gate, and shuffled the three of them into the detention center.

“Someone’s here to see you, Lykes,” he gestured towards the cell where the half-Vulcan was meditating, and then grabbed Quark’s attention and dragged him a bit to the side; “I have good news for you, Quark,” he said as if it were a grand mercy that he was highly unhappy to deliver, “As it turns out, Starfleet has decided they might drop charges against Rom _if_ you manage to produce the Dopterian in return. It would appear your former tenant has quite the shifty record. Something tells me you might know why he never appeared on any leaving ship’s manifest.”

“Ha! I see what you’re trying to do here, Odo,” Quark replied, “But it’s not going to work. You’re not going to pin anything on me this time, because I did nothing wrong. If that Dopterian had fake identification before he arrived, then it must be his own doing,” he shrugged. “I can’t possibly be responsible for _everything_ shifty going on in the Alpha Quadrant, or you wouldn’t be interested in that person. _But_ ,” he didn’t let the shapeshifter interrupt him, “I do need my brother back, and so I am willing to look what we’re up to with your man, if you’d give me his real name to hasten my researches,” he rubbed the edge of his lobe a bit.

“Thank you brother! Thank you!” echoed Rom behind the forcefield.

“Of course,” hummed Odo, “I will send the information you need to your personal com channel,” he agreed, wishing that Starfleet would’ve given him another option. Then, for good measure, he leaned closer, “As for your friend Mynx, I’ll be holding you personally responsible for his behaviour through his stay,” Odo made sure to keep his voice low, “And yes, I can do that,” he added before Quark could protest. The Ferengi just sighed. Well, it wasn’t anything out of the usual. In fact, if the shapeshifter hadn’t made this threat, _that_ would have been suspicious.

On the other side, Timun kept a neutral face for his father.

“You could at least give me a smile if you’re not going to greet me,” the Trill chimed. Getting no reaction, he continued, “Ah, well. I saw your mother before leaving, she seemed radiant. I haven’t told her about this,” he gestured at the cell, “not yet at least. I thought you’d rather tell her yourself.”

“What exactly are you here for? Laugh at my misery?” Timun asked.

“Quite,” Jaden admitted honestly. “Don’t you think this situation is hilarious? I told you you’d never survive a week out in the world and I was right!” he chuckled. “But more seriously, Romulan Ale!?” He let himself laugh a bit. “This is absolutely hilarious, don’t you think? Wasn’t it a bottle of Romulan Ale that was involved when -”

That’s enough!” Timun got up. “Constable!” he called for the Chief of Security before setting his attention back on his father, “If you’re going to confess _you_ were the one smuggling Romulan Ale and that it nearly killed your own son, please, do so. As long as you’re not sharing _my_ cell afterwards, that’ll be fine. And I’ll testify against you. Gladly. I am nothing like you.” Jaden didn’t seem so impressed by the threat however.

“That’s enough, you two,” Odo glared at the convict and the other (who should also be a convict, in all honesty). “But your son is right, if you feel like lightening your heart a bit, now _would_ be an adequate time to do it,” he smiled an almost friendly smile, “If not, I suggest we leave him alone for now.”

Timun sat back on his bench, silent again. The situation he was in was humbling. To be exposed like this, like an animal, with his father gawking at him… More than angry, he felt sad for himself. He didn’t deserve to be there, did he? Or was it true that he might be like his father after all?

“You were never there. I’d rather you keep on this way,” he told with a dry voice, not looking at the man.

“If that’s what you want, I suppose we can do that,” Jaden nodded. He picked a PADD from his bag however. “And we can examine the content of this order from the Trillian Bureau of Justice when you feel like seeing me again,” he smiled. “They say the longer you wait to open a gift, the higher the expectations, so I hope you won’t be deceived when we get to see what’s in it,” he waved the device – Timun didn’t react. He wasn’t going to give in that little game.

“Thank you, I’ll take care of that,” said Odo while snagging the PADD and walking both Jaden and Quark out of there. “I assume you’ll be staying here on the station?” he drawled at the Trill.

“If he does, I forbid him to lurk into my quarters!” Timun stood up. “I do not trust this man, and the person who lives with me is respectable, as far as I know. I have caused him enough trouble.” Jaden looked at his son with surprise and amusement.

“Fascinating. I won’t use your quarters then.”

“What a touching statement,” Odo observed the scene. Back in his office with the two visitors, he glared back at Mynx. “And where will you be found? It’s forbidden to sleep on the Promenade,” he insinuated.

“Constable,” Jaden pronounced the word with tenderness, “a man like me can sleep anywhere; it’s but a matter of finding a good company. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you turn my son into a real criminal with your attentionate care, and I’ll attend a few spins at the dabo table.”

“Now that is one good news,” Quark approved. “I’ll lead the way,” he did as he said, yet looked back at the shapeshifter, “And don’t worry, Odo, I am not forgetting our little arrangement.”

## * * *

Later that day, Melekor found himself standing in the security office, waiting as Odo inspected the lunch he’d brought to share with Timun. Hasperat rolls and ginja juice. At last, the shapeshifter harrumphed and gave the box back to the Cardassian before escorting him to the cell in which his roommate still lingered. He deactivated the forcefield, only to allow Melekor to give Timun his meal, then left to observe them back from the more comfortable chair of his office.

“I just had a very interesting conversation,” Melekor said as he sat in front of the other, “about you.” Timun frowned while opening the little box containing his food.

“About me? You met my father, didn’t you?” he guessed. “Whatever he said, it was probably all lies, or truth distorted in such ways it might as well be a lie too.”

“So you’re not a ‘ _good boy_ ’?” Melekor raised an eyeridge, “I already figured that.” Trying to figure out how to eat hasperat however was one step more complicated. Timun laughed and took a bite of his own roll, letting out a grunt of approval as spices filled his mouth.

“Alright, what I did wasn’t right nor was it wise,” he admitted. “I have a personal backstory of problems that happened because of this kind of alcohol, and I guess I panicked a bit and my chosen course of action wasn’t the smartest. I should have listened to you.”

“I should’ve been more dominant,” Melekor reckoned, still having issues finding how to eat his hasperat without the sauce leaking from the bread roll, “I’m bad at that, I tend to be too submissive in relation to new people; I watch too carefully how the group functions to integrate myself instead of taking the lead,” he gave up and put the food aside in its box for a moment, opting to drink instead. “One of the first valuable lessons I learned is that I don’t function so well without a group. Savras used to be my group, when I worked on the Levossa, but now that I quit-”

“You’re a Cardassian, alone on the space station crowded with Bajorans who probably don’t like the looks of you so much,” Timun finished for him. The interruption wasn’t welcome, but Melekor had to nod in agreement.

He annoyedly tried to return to his food while continuing, “If we were to form a group, having rules will be necessary.” He continued with an air that let the other know very clearly who it was that would set said rules.

“I’m not opposed to it,” Timun answered in blunt honesty. “I like to know my jurisdiction around others, to know what’s expected of me or what’s unwelcome, you know? But if you’re going to make rules, I want a say in them, of course. I’m only part-Vulcan, and while I’ve learned to lock out my emotions a little, it’s not something I’m capable of doing constantly. But I _do_ have very strong emotions which I try to control through various coping mechanisms, and if your rules were to get in the way of them, it could result in a violent outburst at some point. I’d rather we never get there, because my strength is mostly Vulcan,” he explained. “But if that reassures you, I haven’t had any such an accident in years. Sports and martial arts have brought me a good amount of discipline.”

“I see. It’s good you mention it,” Melekor appreciated before starting his exposition. “The first rule would be to maintain a unified outwards front,” he figured he’d begin with the most important part. “Attune yourself to the rest of the group, especially its leader, and adjust accordingly. Secondly, do not contradict another member of the group in front of other people – do it in private, if you must, but make sure the discord doesn’t show in any way for others to see. They will take advantage of weak points,” he cleared his throat and then continued, “Thirdly, don’t incriminate yourself: follow the rules of wherever you are. If you are caught doing something illegal, you’re on your own,” he lifted a dismissive hand, then continued, “Fourth: trust is nice, but loyalty is better. Don’t be blind, though, and certainly don’t stop using your own brain just because someone else might be making the big decisions,” he looked at his hasperat then at Timun again. “Fifth: don’t try to impress the rest of your group by taking unnecessary risks.” He distinctly remembered that one time Nakam had climbed a tree and not only broke his wrist, but also his dignity, “I used to know someone with such tendencies; it might come as little surprise that he’s dead now, courtesy of Starfleet,” he cleared his throat again, then took a bite of his meal. He didn’t actually want to think about _Wolf 359_ , and he had a distinct feeling that he’d never forgive Nakam Nar for joining Starfleet to begin with. _What a ludicrous idea it had been_.

“There is a strong logic behind your rules,” Timun nodded while finishing his roll already, “I can agree to them. I like your spirit, Melekor,” he told sincerely, allowing himself to smile. He wiped his fingers on the napkin that came along the box before grabbing the bottle of ginja juice. He stared at it for some seconds, lifting his glasses and putting them back on, then looked at Melekor’s clothes as well. This behavior caused a certain uncomfort in the Cardassian. Melekor was not amused, and after a while of glaring subtly at the other, he put his food down.

“I _know_ what those glasses do,” he pointed out with contained annoyance, “and I would rather you didn’t use them on me. If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Odo about it. It has to be an offense, at any rate.”

“And what do they do exactly?” Timun asked with an inkling that maybe the other was mistaken. “Have you ever worn any? Or had eye surgery?” he suggested, holding a doubt on that for himself. It would be quite amazing if the Cardassian happened to have the same specificity as him, but if it were the case, he probably wouldn’t be so offended.

“Good try,” Melekor snarked, crossing an arm over his chest, still holding the hasperat with the other, “as a matter of fact, I have. And let me tell you this: even if you’re the only one who sees them as naked, it’s still an offense, because you didn’t ask permission, now did you?” The Vulcan’s expression was that of surprised disbelief and utter amusement. Soon he gave in laughter, turning to his side a bit so not to laugh directly at the Cardassian’s face.

“You think it’s what it is!?” he tried to calm down. “How absurd! Why would I want to even see people naked, that is ludicrous!” the idea made him laugh even more. “I’ll- I’ll let you try them out and see for yourself!”

Melekor had opened his mouth to make a remark, but was cut short by the sound of the automatic doors opening, and Odo getting through, together with Quark. He shut his mouth again and got to his feet, trying to look more dignified – Timun mimicked him instantly. They observed in silence as Odo reached Rom’s force field and deactivated it swiftly. When the Ferengi seemed to remain imprisoned, at least mentally, the shapeshifter snorted.

“Yes, Rom, I find it as hard to believe as you do, but you are a free man again,” he waved for the Ferengi to go, “as much as it pains me,” he added tiredly. Rom quickly got up and exited.

“Thank you brother! I knew you’d come for me!” he told Quark before turning to Odo. “And thank you too,” he added in case the shapeshifter would feel offended not to be thanked and might change his mind as to which side of the cell the Ferengi belonged to.

“Now get back to work!” Quark cut short then softened to face Odo. “I am glad this is settled,” he bowed just a little. He gave a look toward Timun’s cell then looked at Odo. “Well, I let you continue…” he just said and left in his turn. The Vulcan shifted on place a little.

“Did you get a chance to read the PADD, Constable?”

“Yes,” rasped back Odo in his most gravelly voice, clearly unhappy that Timun had chosen to speak first, “And it would appear that the physical evidence, the witness and your own confession of sorts,” with each word, he’d come closer, until he was standing next to the cell, “were not enough for a conviction,” he pressed the button, then handed the PADD to Timun. “Just know that I’ll be watching you, and I’ll be watching you closely... for as long as you remain aboard this station.” The surprise dawned on the Vulcan.

“You mean I am free? There is no error?” he checked the PADD first. Then he read the judge’s name. “Oh… Of course.” He picked the lunch box and the bottle of ginja juice, and stepped out of the cell, looking at the PADD some more. “While I appreciate recovering my freedom and to get out of this without a criminal case in my file, I wish it happened differently,” he told more bitterly and kindly offered the PADD back to the Constable. “Thank you,” he tried a formal word of politeness before turning to Melekor, ready to follow his lead.

 

Back on the Promenade and back to freedom, the young men went over to the Replimat, to simply discard their empty lunch boxes. As Timun handed his glasses over to Melekor for him to try them on, the Cardassian nearly put them in the replicator instead of the boxes, which made Timun’s heart skip a beat.

“Those are custom-made and I don’t have a change,” he felt the need to specify while his roommate put the pair on. He took them off at once, aghast.

“Why would you do this to yourself!? That’s horrible!” he stared at Timun in disbelief, handing him back the glasses.

“Is it?” The Vulcan-Trill laughed as he took them, “See, as my little sister joked, I don’t need rosy-colored glasses, because that’s already how I see the world,” he jested. “I mostly see shades of red and pink, some kind of cyan and muddy purple. Guess my surprise when I was diagnosed to be colorblind just two months ago…” he shrugged and put his glasses back on his nose. “I was given those glasses to get used to the full color spectrum they allow me to see before deciding if I want to go for eye surgery, so the cones in my eyes can be fixed. I’m not yet sure what to choose, though I guess it would help me choose nicer clothes and understand a bit better what people like so much about this or that landscape, painting, dress or whatever…” he smiled maliciously to hide his embarrassment.

“Well. It’s good that you have them; you’ll need them where we’re going: Garak’s Clothier,” Melekor set their new course to the tailor shop. “I think it might be better if you stay outside for a moment while I talk to him; there’s something I need to tell him that I’d rather keep private.” Timun didn’t object, nor did he ask questions, and Melekor could appreciate that.

 

“Ah, please, come in!” the tailor welcomed his customer as he entered. “Your visit is quite timely. I just got the fabric samples I was telling you about yesterday. Would you like to get a feel of them and see which would suit your tastes best, for your order?”

“Certainly,” Melekor smiled. As much as he wanted to keep true to his decision not to care for the man, he _did_ have that sympathetic feeling about him. Something that made you like him, which was about infuriating to the engineer. He felt like he was being manipulated and didn’t like it. “I like this shade of beige and it seems durable enough,” he commented instead about one of the samples. “This one is nice too… Well, I trust you’ll do great with either or both,” he cut short to come to his topic of interest. “I take it you are getting better? Because, if that weren’t the case, I might be able to get you something that would help.”

“How attentionate of you, Mister,” the tailor kept on avoiding to pronounce his client’s family name. “But, I believe I should fare well enough, at least until I’ve completed your order. I _might_ need to take a little vacation after however…” Garak smiled a pinched smile, blue eyes set on his customer and not straying away from him. His face, his scales. The youth might be only half-Cardassian, he sure had the looks and attitude of a full-blooded one, and it only served to remind the tailor how much he longed for his kind. His home. Dear Cardassia. How odd that his client’s family name had to remind him of one of the few persons who had mattered there… Kel. How was she doing now? And the other…? Garak took a breath and finally found the strength to divert his gaze to the fabric instead, to hopefully let the nostalgia and pain where it was. “If you’ll excuse me, now…”

“We both know that if you could have gotten something efficient, you would have done so already,” Melekor cut off, attacking the problem from another angle. “Now, I’ve got a contact that might just get something that’s a little bit more fit for Cardassian physique and pain, but for that, I will need the name of your game and... a favour.”

“And what sort of favor would that be?” the tailor asked cautiously, letting through a bit of cunning to allow himself to go for a jest if need be. The engineer drew a deep breath.

“I need to identify someone; who they are, where they live – you get the gist. The issue is that I only have a rather old paper photo to go on. So I need help.”

“Oh!” Garak exclaimed. “Of course!” he shook his head with a little bit of amusement. “And who could do this better than your local tailor? Now I must admit you draw my curiosity, Mister…” he put the fabric on the worktable. “Please, tell me the full story,” he gave him a fond look. “I do enjoy a good story every once in awhile.”

“Oh, good try.” He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected the question, but cut himself short, smirking smugly at Garak. “That information is part of the deal. Just name your poison, and let’s make this deal. Then I’ll tell you the necessities.” He held an open hand towards Garak, “Or refuse,” he added, “it’s _your_ headache after all, if you’re deeply attached to it, who am I argue?” Garak chuckled gently while spreading the fabric over the table, then looked at the hand and shook it.

“If it has to be so serious…” A slightly darker spark shone in his eyes as he looked into Melekor’s very black eyes. A sharp sound started to buzz in his ear so he turned back to the fabric to avoid looking at the Cardassian. “Triptacederine is a substance more likely to ease my pain a little,” he told factually. “It is nothing illegal, and probably not the hardest to obtain, I believe, but on this station, all medical substances need to be approved by a doctor in the first place and ...while I have the greatest respect for our good Doctor Bashir…” he smiled, “I would rather he be left out of this.” He turned to the other again. “Now, it’s been a long time since I last saw a paper photo…” he waited for the other to produce it.

“Certainly,” he dug in his chest pocket, where he always kept the picture, and drew out a small metal casing, which he cared to open for Garak, before reaching it over. A slender Cardassian man in his late thirties figured in the photo, clad in some kind of silky, deep purple robes. He was sat at a small round table, enjoying a game of chess (his pieces were black), grinning almost childishly straight at the camera, for he was just about to checkmate his opponent. Some surprise did make it on Garak’s face.

“There, there… What a fine man we have here,” he commented with appreciation, as if he was surprised by the looks of him rather than anything else. “A very fine taste in clothes, I see. May I ask what the connection between you would be?” he inquired.

“My mother used to work with him,” Melekor explained, and it wasn’t a lie, “she conducted a series of interviews with him for her book. Unfortunately she’s lost vital parts of the data between then and now. I was hoping to find him, perhaps he still has the transcripts. She’s unwell,” he added the last part, which wasn’t true. “However unfortunate that is, it gives her plenty of time to work on her personal projects again. Hence this entire endeavour.” He was quite pleased with his story, thinking it sounded credible enough.

“Interviews…” Garak repeated. “I hope he enjoyed them and keeps a dear-enough memory of her that a nice word from her could convince him to pass me an order. I wouldn’t mind tailoring for such a character,” he allowed himself to be a little cheeky. “And surely, your mother told you the name of this man to aid you in your mission, hm?” Garak’s look now made it clear that Melekor would need to up his game a little if he wished to pursue this road. “I do believe you when you say she’s an author. In fact, I think I might even have read one of her books.” Melekor’s expression was one of indignation and ‘ _oh, I didn’t think about that_ ’, with a side-dish of pure panic. It took most of his willpower to stay in place and not run off.

“She always left out that piece of information,” he finally muttered with dejection, “on purpose,” he added a bit more surly, just to switch to something more hopeful; “But you can find him, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Garak nodded, “we happened to meet in the same flower shop a number of times, and there is nothing better than bonding over bouquets of sand lilies and potted orchids,” he smiled brightly. He winced right after as an other larsen whipped him all through the skull. He handed the photo case back and tried to resume to a more presentable expression. “A hundred doses of triptacederine,” he said. “I would suggest you try to get it as fast as possible,” he steadied himself with a hand on the table. “Make the price. I’ll provide the latinum.”

Melekor shifted from one confusion to another – Garak knew his father? He wanted _a hundred_ doses?! _And_ he wanted to pay? Hadn’t they agreed on a trade? Then again, perhaps this wasn’t the time to bring such things up – “ _if it’s a gift, don’t inspect the cargo too closely,_ ” or at least that was what Torim had said.

“Uh. Of course, I’ll have to pass that onto my contact,” he finally managed to say, nodding and backing a little. There were too many questions for his head – not just about Garak’s apparent generosity, but moreso, questions about his father. What was he like? What did he enjoy? What did his voice sound like? All things that his mother had decided to keep from him, perhaps as an act of mercy, since she didn’t want him to linger on the subject long enough to miss a person who would never be a part of his life, anyway, “Thank you,” he added finally.

“You are welcome,” Garak nodded politely. “But now I _really_ need to keep on with work,” he practically shooed him out of his shop.

## * * *

Melekor didn’t have many keepsakes in his bedroom – it wouldn’t be practical on the kind of trip he was making – but he had cared to replicate two wooden carvings of Trillian wingfish, which he had placed on the shelf above his bed in perfect symmetry. Laying on his bed while Timun was off in his own room for a call to his family, the Cardassian pondered over the deal he’d struck. His instincts told him that Garak would very much know who his contact was, and that he might even be tracking his movements. For a while, he contemplated letting Timun in on it all, asking him to figure as the dealer, but then he disregarded that plan. Too many steps, too complicated, and the more people in a story, the harder to keep it together. No. He had to do this himself. He had to make an evasive maneuver.

He had to go to Bashir.

If he went there, any of the nurses could be implicated, which would confuse Garak, because both Starfleet and Bajor placed great importance on patient-doctor confidentiality. Appointments were behind locked doors. Knowing this, he took his dose of his phelenaxinide, and went to sleep.

## * * *

Later that night, the Cardassian tailor made a most unexpected apparition at Quark’s. The atmosphere was dizzying with noise, voices, clattering of plates, clinking of glasses, chattering, and the rattling spinning of the dabo wheel with its shuffling of latinum and cries of victory or disappointment. Yet, the Cardassian braved it all to reach the owner at the bar. The Ferengi could tell by his gaze that this wasn’t the kind tailor he was facing. The blue eyes were cold, the face contained anger from within, the body language was rigid, almost giving the impression that Garak wore an armor.

“Quark,” Garak shot at him and moved to a slightly calmer corner; the barman followed him with apprehensive haste. “You still have good contacts on Cardassia Prime, I expect,” the Cardassian asked.

“I guess I probably do,” the Ferengi gave an evasive answer.

“I will… give you a code of requisition for a piece of bio-medical equipment,” Garak told quite sternly, focusing on his own words as they seemed to sound different, more as if he heard them from inside a bottle. “I want you to find someone high-ranking enough to deliver it. I will pay. Generously. For the equipment, for you, and for your contact’s trouble.”

“You… Yes, of course…” the Ferengi blinked in confusion. “How much latinum…?”

“I’ll bring you the code in due time,” Garak answered instead and strode away, leaving the bepuzzled barman behind.

Slowly, he made his way back to his quarters. He didn’t have the courage to undress, even least to get to the bathroom for a shower. He simply collapsed on his bed and somehow managed to wrap himself in the bedsheet. His sleep was poor; his body temperature constantly seemed too high or too low and he was restless. Morning come, getting up took tremendous efforts, but he managed to haul himself to the bathroom this time. How he wished he could have dipped himself in warm water… He combed himself longly instead, massaging his skull with the dents until he felt comfortable enough to proceed to dress up, eat something and go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We hope you like it; please leave a little comment (again, copy-pasting lines is welcome!)


	5. Day 4 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being your local Cardassians' physician is a test on Doctor Bashir's nerves. That the newcomer wouldn't trust him is a thing, but that Garak continues to keep him at arm's length is starting to hurt.

## Day 4

 

On that morning Melekor got up early and took the opportunity that Timun was training in his room to slip out to the infirmary. The doctor’s enthusiasm at the sight of him flared at once, and he was happy to escort him to the more private rooms. Melekor courteously did what he was asked, allowing basic scans, but declining anything above the very primitive sciences. Bashir was disappointed at the restrictions, but obliged anyway, although with an increasing look of disdain on his face.

“What on Earth happened to you?” he muttered, eyebrows pinched together a bit like only Humans and similar aliens could.

“A little bit of this and a little bit of that,” Melekor answered evasively.

“Three of your ribs look like they were broken, dislocated, and put together using the same technique that broke them in the first place, and your left clavicle-” he looked up towards Melekor, who shrugged. “How can you simply sit there and shrug it off?”

“I’d like to leave now.”

“What!? But I didn’t even get to perform the neurographic scan yet!” – Melekor shrugged at the outrage again.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he simply got off of the bed, “Coming here was a mistake. Central Command wouldn’t like a Cardassian going to a Federal doctor, anyway,” he added the last part with a certain sharpness. The doctor seemed to take offense, but refrained from saying so.

“Well, you are welcome back if you change your mind,” it looked as though he had a lot more he wanted to say, but to Melekor’s relief, he chose to keep it to himself.

Next up was a tour past the jumja stand, where he bought himself another small jumja stick, this time with a more spicy feeling. It was a bit early for Quark’s to be in full business, so it was fairly empty when he entered, sitting down at a table more in the back, still enjoying the stick. He knew Quark would notice him eventually and come over there, but until such time, he ordered “something bitter” from one of the waiters. The blue-green drink he got sure was bitter, but together with the sweet spice of the jumja stick, it made a third kind of flavour, which Melekor found especially enjoyable.

The Ferengi bartender took the time to finish cleaning some glasses and to scold Rom a bit before approaching – a measure of scolding is always a good measure; that was a more personal Rule of Acquisition.

“Well, nice to see more than Morn at this hour,” he greeted his customer at last. “Is there anything you’d be interested in? A little fun in the holosuite? Something more special maybe?” he pulled the sleazy acting, leaning over the Cardassian to whisper to him his last proposition. “So, what would you need?”

Melekor let him check his PADD as he detailed his request. While the bartender wasn’t the sort to ask questions about the use of the merchandize he helped to procure, he couldn’t help but note that this was an entirely new kind of deal.

“It’s not for you, is it?” he figured. He stopped for a moment, squinting and licking a tooth inside his mouth, weaving patterns to make a guess. “Garak,” he threw the name. Score. The expression on Melekor’s face was enough of an answer. “What’s he going to do with a hundred doses of that thing?” he couldn’t help but wonder for a change. “Either he’s planning to go hunt mammoths or to kill himself with that.” Or to knock out the entire station? ...That wouldn’t be doable, would it? Besides, if Garak wanted to end himself, Quark wouldn’t be one to make opposition, especially if he was paying for it – that’d teach that filthy tailor to send him trying to make contacts on Cardassia without even telling him what  _ exactly _ he was supposed to acquire. “Ah, nevermind,” he chuckled. “Just give me a second,” he added.

It took him a few minutes to find the gross price of the substance and do his quick calculation. That done, he came back to Melekor.

“I can’t go lower than thirteen strips of gold-pressed latinum,” he nodded. Surely Garak was wealthy enough to rip him of that, especially in his condition. Rule of Acquisition number 86:  _ when your customer’s life is at stake, take all the money you can: if they do die, you’ll always regret you didn’t make more profit _ .

“I have no argument against that; he’s the one paying. Do you really think he’d kill himself?” Melekor asked with more concern.

“Hmph,” Quark shrugged. “I can’t read a mind like his, but if he’s been around for so long, I expect him to keep it like that. He doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type. If you’ve got concerns about whether or not a Cardassian could kill himself with that, ask a Cardassian doctor,” he suggested. “But not before I get my latinum, hm?”

“I could ask myself,” the other muttered, leaning back in his seat. Being part of two people wasn’t, as one would expect, like being of two species. It was in fact like being neither, and when people noticed, you became a nothing, not even something in between. “I  _ am _ a Cardassian, after all,” he added, rather surly, for clarification, “I’d lobotomize myself if I thought that’d help.”

“Do as you please,” Quark said, “but I wouldn’t recommend that. And don’t torture yourself too much.  _ Nothing but profit comes out of a good deal _ , Rule of Acquisition number 11. It means you shouldn’t think about what they’ll do with what you sell them. If you trouble yourself with such thoughts, you’ll never get anywhere, believe me. When you find a golden opportunity like this, you’d be a fool to let it pass. And I don’t think Garak would be more satisfied if you’d let him down,” he shook his head a bit. “Never let a client down, Melekor, especially if it’s Garak.” The young man hummed as an answer, thoughtfully dipping his jumja in the beverage. It was, perhaps, a bit childish to mix them like this, but would prove well worth it once the jumja had dissolved.

“I’ll tell him the price, then get back to you. It did seem like price didn’t matter to him.” He contemplated for an ugly moment to add onto it, to make some profit himself, but ultimately decided that Garak had been generous to him, and that it’d be Ferengi nature, not Cardassian, to cheat him while he was at it. Quark looked at him with a smile then chuckled a little and nudged him.

“Oh, I know exactly what you were thinking right now, I know that gaze… And do you know what’s the Rule of Acquisition number 284?  _ Deep down, everyone’s a Ferengi _ ,” he grinned. “Go for it, you’ll make me proud,” he put a hand on his heart before spinning on his heels to head to the counter.

“Another time, Quark,” Melekor decided to pass on the advice.

##  * * *

It wasn’t the first time Julian was being stood up by Garak, but it was the first time it worried him. He resisted the temptation to go look for him however, as he knew Garak would hardly appreciate it. Most likely he’d laugh him off, which would infuriate him even more – both privately and professionally. Instead, he sat at the Replimat with a light chicken-and-bacon lettuce; it was easier to wait for someone, if you didn’t have to worry that your food was getting cold. Eventually, though, the appeal of his plate had won him over, and he was about one quarter into the meal when he finally saw Garak. That surprised him equally as much as it would have if the man had skipped the meal altogether. It was rarer for Garak to come later than it was for him not to come at all.

“Where  _ have _ you been?” he asked with badly contained offense, “I’ve waited for…” he wasn’t sure how long, but it felt like ages.

“I am absolutely sorry, Doctor,” the Cardassian passed by as he reached the replicator, quickly coming back to the table with blue shrimps and eggs. “I had a little bit of a turbulence,” he sat. “Did you know certain people  _ do _ keep voles as pets? Well, long story short, I not only lost a customer, but also two robes and a pair of pants I’d been working on for this young Cardassian you sent me,” he sighed dramatically. “I had to put a little bit of order in the shop before coming, and place the shredded materials back in the replicator.” He wasn’t going to tell, of course, that he’d been the one to shred the clothes in a pang of pain and anger.

At first, he’d just been laying on his worktable, resting his head on folded clothes. But with his eyes closed, he only became more and more aware of the room. The feel of the table, of the walls around him, the smell of various fabrics, the electric grizzling and beeping of the computer and the replicator, the muffled noises of some loud passerbyers on the Promenade, the  temperature – slightly higher than outdoors, but still too cold to his likings… He’d wanted to cry from the frustration of being stuck in this place when he should be allowed to at least return to Cardassia, to keep on serving his nation… And he’d yielded and thought of Kel, and Palandine mostly. And that. That had been unbearable and anger had taken over. He’d thought of the last time he’d thought of her like this, the one time when he’d torn a dress to pieces in front of Quark as the Ferengi seeked for his advice in his Cardassian romance with Natima Lang. If Elim couldn’t have Palandine, why should  _ Quark _ have Natima? Oh, the feeling that came along then. He’d somehow not expected such a sensation of satisfaction to overwhelm him as he destroyed his own work – the constant reminder that he was now nothing but a tailor and  _ hobbyist _ spy, populating his shop with hollow shapes of Cardassians. Garments that never came to life.

The satisfaction of his vendetta against the clothes had been short-lived this time however, as shame and sadness somehow crawled upon him. He still felt nervous, unsure of how to interpret those sentiments amidst the pain in his brain – including the fact that looking at Bashir felt someone soothing now. Noticing his gaze might have been a little too intense, he looked down his plate and skewed some shrimps and a slice of egg on his fork.

“Must have been some ‘wolf’,” Bashir reckoned, opening up for the both of them to continue talking in metaphors, “I believe an animal not much different visited my infirmary this morning, leaving me with a similar feeling of…” he sought for a fitting word, “distraught? No,” he shook his head and held up his fork, as if trying to catch the right words in the air with it, “Hopelessness,” he corrected himself. “But you should tell of yours first,” he dug further into his food. He was quite starving after all that waiting.

“Oh, I’m afraid there isn’t so much to tell,” Garak kept on looking at his food. “That such a beautiful woman came to my humble shop was a delight at first, but she had a box with her, and what was inside managed to get out. It’s probably lucky we managed to catch it without getting bitten, as the animal didn’t seem so tame. Which I can understand…” he felt another wave of pain and stabbed a shrimp a bit roughly. “I would probably be angry and yearning for a way to escape too, were I locked up in a box constantly, away from my own kind and forced to act gentle with an alien species in order to be allowed to keep on living. If that can be called a life,” he pressed his lips into a tight smile, a hard expression on his face. “I do not like voles, but I abhor animal cruelty.”

That was probably the closest he’d ever gotten to how Garak honestly and truly felt, Julian thought. He wouldn’t make the mistake of pitying him however, no matter how much his heart asked him to comfort the other. Cardassians were too prideful for that, and it’d probably undermine Garak’s feeling of self-worth even more. Instead he smiled sadly at his friend.

“She should get someone to help her carry that box, or else it’ll become a security hazard,” he hummed softly, fighting the impulse to reach out and hold Garak’s arm. “If it makes any difference to you, I want you to know that I always look forward to lunches with you. You might not be where you want, being what you want, but you are dear to me.”

Garak could difficulty repress a look of slight indignation, though he managed to make it a bit playful. That Julian would interpret his words in such a way could only be ridiculous. Really, the doctor was seeing too much in them. And Garak hated that he appreciated it. He hated that it did soothe him. A shiver ran down his spine. He missed a chance to reply something witty, or maybe he never intended to take the chance, instead letting out a little sound of pain as his gaze fell down Julian’s chest – his eyes had suddenly gotten blinded by a bright fleck of light reflected by his Starfleet communicator.

“Are you alright?” Julian worried instantly as Garak blinked.

“It’s the light,” the tailor refrained from muttering against stupid combadges – at least, such things didn’t happen with Cardassian com bracelets!

“Oh, I’m… really sorry,” Julian apologized but couldn’t help joking, “Looks like you’ve seen the light!” he chuckled. Then calmed down quickly as his friend didn’t seem to understand what was supposed to be funny. Clearing his throat, he explained, “It’s a Human idiom that has two meanings. One means you’ve been close from dying; it’s based on a very ancient belief that, in a near-death situation, people would see a bright light calling them to the ‘ _ great beyond _ ’ of the afterlife,” he told, “And the other is synonymous of enlightenment, as if you’d seen the light of God-” He cut himself short as he remembered Cardassians weren’t exactly  _ fond _ of anything religious. “Well, it’s just an expression now, really,” he frowned – Garak was listening with curiosity and slight paranoia too. He’d seen that light of death before, he’d delved into spirituality too, and his instinct told him to  _ hide _ this. This left the doctor with a creeping feeling that he’d just hecked up a little.

Either way, he soon dug out two rods from his pocket and set one a little smile on his lips as he switched the topic to literature, “I have two new books for you,” he held up the rods, “One is light-hearted, the other slightly more ...heavy,” he suggested. “ _ Murder on the Orient Express _ by Agatha Christie – I think you’ll like this one, for a change – and  _ The Trial  _ by Franz Kafka,” he lowered the latter. “By the sounds of it, you really need the entertaining novel more.” He stuck Kafka back in his pocket and slid the other rod towards Garak.

“The title does sound interesting,” the tailor conceded. “Do you plan on reading some Cardassian literature while I delve some more into ...what I expect to be yet another Terran classic?”

“Why, yes, I planned to actually!” It was good to see Garak smile again, even though Julian was sure the effect was only temporary; at least it was never wrong to remind people of their importance. “And yes, Agatha Christie is quite a classic author, that’s for certain. I am pretty sure there are holographic novels of her works, if ever you felt like indulging together with me…” he suggested. For some reason this proposition made the Cardassian’s heartbeat a bit faster, increasing his temperature a little while more shivers spread through his neck, on his back and through his forearms. A light panic, that he could, no doubt, control. That his pupils had dilated some more, he could hardly figure however. How such an innocent invitation could trigger such a reaction of stress was a bit puzzling however.

“This sounds very interesting,” he smiled with interest. “What a better way to discover a culture but to do it in the close company of a friend? So, is it an enigma sort of tale?” he looked at the rod, then back at Julian. 

“It’s a mystery story, actually,” Julian answered with a smirk, “and I think that for the language alone, you should read it before you go to the holosuite. There are, of course, other stories by her, and if you like this one, we could get another for an evening together. Or maybe you’d like to provide me with a more Cardassian experience one of these days?” he teased playfully.

“Naturally,” the Cardassian managed to recover his own natural. “I do believe that arts are the finest way to become acquainted with alien cultures, and that such acquaintances are necessary for peace to be ensured. No matter how different we are, there is always something to be found to establish a common ground and mutual appreciation. My experience as a tailor, is that the vast majority of species seem to need clothing,” he gave a small shrug, “and considering my shop is still open and running despite the rare amount of Cardassians to pass by, I would see in it a proof that our tastes in clothes are enjoyable to many.” That said, he treated himself some more shrimps.

“That might just be one of the truest things I’ve heard in a while,” Julian admitted, picking at his lettuce, “Which is why it makes it so sad that you Cardassians are so reclusive, and so guarded. For instance,” he managed to eat a piece of chicken in between sentences, “earlier today, our half-Cardassian friend actually showed up in the infirmary. He was going to let me take some scans, but changed his mind midway through because he thought that Central Command wouldn’t like it!” he cut his food in two, “I’m starting to think you all would rather  _ die _ than let someone non-Cardassian help you. I understand caution, but at a certain point, don’t you agree that it gets to be at least a little bit ridiculous? I’ve never seen such a…” he cut himself off, begrudgingly reminding himself of doctor-patient relations. “Anyway, there were  _ things _ I could have helped with, but he wouldn’t let me. Just like you,” he stabbed the last words at Garak, partially because he couldn’t stop thinking about it, partially because Garak’s determination to keep him at arm’s length was starting to hurt.

“But what tells you you’re not helping me already?” Garak smiled almost innocently, though his eyes held a more cunning spark to them. “Do I not call you ‘ _ Doctor _ ’ ever since we’ve met?” he pointed. “I may not be so willing to let you hold your tricorder at me, but I let you hold your ears open to the insignificant stories I have to share, and I assure you,  _ Doctor _ ,” he laid a hand across the table, “I find this very therapeutic. Words are sometimes a better cure than chemicals, are they not?” Julian smiled in resignation, taking Garak’s hand with his own. It did feel good to hear these words, and for once, he was sure there was truth to them, even though Garak likely made sure it was some kind of lie. Or disguised the truth as a lie, he allowed himself to consider.

“You are right,” he shook his head a little, “of course.” He rubbed the other’s fingers to put emphasis into it. He’d wanted to add something about how “ _ sometimes _ ” was especially true, but since Garak was almost vulnerable, he figured he’d give him some leeway, changing the subject slightly, “I’ll talk to Quark, about ordering a holonovel for us.”

“This is very kind of you, Doctor,” Garak smiled. The touch of Julian’s hand was so warm, arraying heat in the most comfortable manner, and the Cardassian couldn’t deny it was pleasant. It was also dangerous, however, in many ways, and so he had to drag himself away from the contact. At least, for a moment, the pain in his brain was gone.

##  * * *

Just a little earlier on that day, Timun found himself both abandoned and a bit bored in the quarters he shared with the Cardassian. It did feel odd to him that Melekor vanished without at least telling him – if not where he’d gone to do what – when he’d return. So much for leadership. But it did put more substance to the concept of ‘loyalty over trust.’ Clearly, Melekor didn’t trust him. The Vulcan-Trill couldn’t entirely fault him in that regard, but it did give him an inkling that, maybe, his roommate had some shadier business going on. And that was probably what guided his footsteps to Quark’s. Entering the bar through the second level, he observed what little population was present on the ground floor below.

“Are you looking for someone?” came from behind the one voice the doctor did not want to hear, causing him to jolt back. “Your father, maybe?” the man smiled.

“Why are you still here? Are you following me? I don’t want to see you, nor to be seen with you,” Timun answered back.

“What a pity,” the Trill shook his head. “Listen, I do not like this attitude of yours. I am your father, and I expected you’d be a little more thankful for what I did for you.”

“If you do something to get gratitude in return, you would do better not to do it at all. It’s too late. I already hate you and I consider your presence in my life to be detrimental to my personal development –” the older man smirked with amusement.

“I’m still your father, and you’re my son. And we’re not so unalike, whether you like it or not. Right now, I’m being the most selfless one of us. I reach out for you, I care for you, while all you care about is yourself.”

“You’re not going to extort thanks out of me. I have nothing to say to you so stop losing both our time. Go away!” Timun growled and tried to walk away. His father caught him by the arm.

“And  _ where _ do you think you’re going? Walking away from me like you walk away from home? You don’t even have the excuse of business meetings-”

“Oh, so you finally admit those were  _ excuses _ not to be with your family?” the Vulcan-Trill faced him again to see the look on his face. It was a lot harder and more serious than he’d expected it.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that  _ you _ are  _ my _ son and you owe me respect and obedience.  _ And _ gratitude. I might not have been very present, physically, but I’ve always provided for all of your needs.”

“Responsibilities are what you get when you become a parent, which you agreed to, I believe?” the half-Vulcan fully failed to appreciate the logic in his father’s opinion.

“Indeed, and I’m glad you agree on this point,” the Trill looked at him through thin, sharp eyes. “Do not give me a reason to require a DNA testing of Dziana,” he warned him. “She’s soon turning nine, let’s not ruin her birthday. She’s always been looking up to you because you two are so similar…” It was a slippery slope and Timun swiftly broke free of his father’s grip.

“I  _ had _ to help mother raise Jaden and Dziana because you were not there. That doesn’t make me into their father,” he hissed before walking away again.

“Let me put it simply,” the Trill interrupted him, whirling himself to bar his way. “You may go, but while you aren’t home, if I have the  _ least  _ thing to ask of you, you  _ will _ do it, Timun,” he pressed his index against the other’s chest. “Refuse, and I’ll run those DNA testings. Were she to appear not to be my daughter, I will let her know-”

“You’re the father,” the young man cut off, though his voice sounded a little panicked. “Mother would never lie about this. She’s a Vulcan,” he fumbled for his words.

“Is it fear I see in your eyes?” his father smirked. “You Vulcans… You  _ do _ lie. Truth is but an illusion, a perception of life you choose to believe in. And so you only need to blind yourself to what you don’t wish to be true to create your own comfortable truth. And I cannot fault you. That is only logical,” he grinned. “We all know what happened back then. And we all know why you decided to leave now. My sweet Timun. You are so bright, yet so idiotic and see-through,” he shook his head and tried to cup his son’s face in his hand but Timun caught his forearm and held it in its course. “Anyway, for now… you should you thank me for sparing you a criminal record, or shall I take Dziana to the medical facility?” he asked, staring at his son with intensity, observing him with quick, green eyes. Timun felt empty. He looked at the man, thinking of how easily he could break his neck, wishing he would not exist right now…

“I thank you…” he uttered with a raspy voice.

“For what? And who am I?” the other insisted for more elaboration. The son gulped.

“I thank you, Father, for sparing me a criminal record that could hinder my future.”

“Good,” the man smiled, tapping his shoulder. “Now, please, enjoy yourself, and have a good pon’farr this year,” he backed off and walked away.

Timun slowly made his way down the stairs, sunk toward a table and melted on a chair. He felt empty and the world around him was a haze. He’d always put so much effort in trusting his mother’s word, in never doubting her. That his father would coerce him was nothing new, but usually it was more about implicit threats, using some stupid things Timun had done as a lever to control his life and his bank account. This however was different and it scared the young man.

For several years now, he’d contemplated reporting him to the Symbiosis Commission, but he’d been worried of the consequences, both financial and emotional, for his family. He could now see that that wasn’t the truth. He’d been afraid of his father. Afraid of what his old man might do if he learned his son denounced him, afraid of what he might do if by some maneuvering he managed to come out innocent of his crimes, once more.

What’s  _ wrong  _ with this man? he couldn’t help but wonder as he massaged his temples. He almost wished his visum for Cardassia would be approved already so he could simply get out of his reach, but that wasn’t a long-term solution and he knew it.

##  * * *

Meanwhile, Melekor hung around the Promenade, unaware of the way he’d been unfortunately avoiding the Vulcan as he searched for him. The Levossa was due to dock, and the young man knowingly waited for the airlock to open, his face concealed by his hood and scarf, perhaps by habit.

About half an hour after the passengers had been released, Savras finally appeared. She was tall, at least a head higher than him. Her tar black hair was tied back in a tidy knot, and her sparkling, nearly feline golden eyes were set on him. Thirty five years old, she knew more than him about most things. Though, truthfully, he was sure she’d still known more even if they’d been the same age.

She exclaimed his name with joyful surprise and they exchanged a quick hug, before she held him out from herself with amusement, “You were waiting for me?” He couldn’t help but to grin behind his mask.

“It is true that I was hoping to see you here today,” they hooked arms and started walking towards Quark’s. “I see they finally updated the uniform,” he looked at the dull grey outfit she wore. “About time if you ask me; the old ones were…”

“Too objectifying,” she agreed, “I do admit I did like the short skirt. But  _ someone  _ thought the Bajorans might appreciate a more modest attire. Wouldn’t want to upset the monks, or something.” They snickered together over the idea, and then her face got more serious, “Your mother has been asking about you. Why didn’t you tell her you quit?” He winced.

“It’s complicated,” it was true, too, “You didn’t tell her I’m on DS9, did you?” he continued, trying to make a joke out of the very serious question.

“No,” Savras said in honesty, “but she’s a Betazoid, so who knows what she picked up from our little conversation.” There was a silence between them as they entered Quark’s and Melekor looked around to see if there were any free seats. “What I don’t get is why you don’t just tell her?”

“Tell her what?” he asked absently as he noticed Timun’s presence.

“Where you are,” she clarified, “did you two have an argument?”

“Hm? Oh! No, goodness no,” he turned back to her and cleared his throat, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he changed the subject instead and headed towards his friend’s table, “This is Timun, my roommate – Timun, this is Savras Wayan, my... former colleague.”

“And present friend,” she added heartily, reaching out an open hand and a glimmering smile. The Vulcan-Trill took the hand, still a little shaken by his previous discussion, yet trying to attune to the group and adjust himself to the mood.

“Timun Lykes,” he gave her a polite squeeze. “Are you going to become her colleague again?” he gestured at Melekor’s hood and scarf. It took Melekor a moment to understand what Timun meant, but when he did he let out a short ‘ _ oh! _ ’ and removed the cloth, as well as the hood, then sat along with Savras.

“No, though I am sure she wouldn’t mind.” Indeed, she hummed and nodded slowly in agreement.

“Festival times make for a lot of  _ traffic _ ,” the woman mentioned with suppressed horror, “I bet Quark gripes about the timing for your departure,” she added with a wink. Melekor felt his neckscales get a bit darker and cleared his throat.

“I must say that I have no idea what you mean by that,” he patted the table a little, looking around for a waiter, “Have you already eaten, Timun?” He saw one and waved for the Ferengi to come over. The Vulcan wanted to say he wasn’t really hungry and should probably leave the two friends alone, but the younger version of Rom was there already. He clearly knew of Timun’s implication in his father’s recent detention and looked at him with a hint of suspicion and anger.

“What would you like to order?” Nog asked anyway.

“I’ll take the same thing as you,” Timun looked at Melekor who frowned a bit at his seeming low spirit, and had to reassess what he’d wanted. If the other wasn’t feeling well, he’d probably not like a Tholian lung pudding.

“Uh... Plomeek soup maybe, with a fresh moba fruit and a glass of water,” he looked to Savras, whom he knew would go for something different.

“There is this Terran dish I’ve heard a lot about, pun-pizza? One with... ham, cheese and tomato,” she grinned, “And a sparkly non-alcoholic drink to go with it. I have to work again soon.” No rest for the wicked. It was quite obvious that she found the Ferengi to be kind of cute, even though she didn’t say anything.

“ _ Pan _ -pizza,” Nog corrected eagerly. “Ha, I’m sure you’ll love it! Actually, I’m the one who added it to our program after my friend Jake introduced me to it. He’s Commander Sisko’s son. I’m his best friend,” he grinned and waddled on place a bit before nodding, making a nervous laugh-like sound and going away to process the order when nobody reacted to his boasting attempt.

“So…” Timun figured he should probably engage with Savras, “...Do you enjoy your job?” he figured could be a decent starter question. Savras pursed her lips and made a bit of an ‘ _ eh _ ’ expression.

“It used to be better,” she decided to be diplomatic about it. “You remember, Melekor,” she nudged him in the side, “when we first started out, the route only went as far as to Xepolite – a much shorter run. And fewer Bajorans.” Melekor laughed a bit at that, though it wasn’t a very joyful laughter. “He nearly got fired when the route was extended to Bajor,” Savras explained, shaking her head in disbelief, “And then they made him wear that ridiculous… thing.”

“I offered to wear it myself,” Melekor defended himself.

“Yes, because it wasn’t as if anyone guided you towards that option,” was the snide remark he got in return. “But anyway. As I said, it used to be better. It’s not like Bajorans are nasty or anything, it’s just everything around them that’s a bit ridiculous.” Timun nodded.

“They are spiritual people, I suppose it excuses a lot. As for yourself,” he turned to Melekor, “I like your face better when I can see it. You chose to pursue your own truth, and that is honorable and admirable.”

“Your drinks,” Nog reappeared to put a tray with glasses on the table, setting each glass in front of each person, “And two plomeek soups,” he picked them from another tray he just put on top of the previous one. “And a pan-pizza,” he flirtatiously grinned at Savras.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Savras seemed to resist the urge to pat the waiter on the cheek, instead turning to her food, “Sure does smell delicious,” better than it looked… She wasn’t sure what she’d expected.

“Pursue my own truth?” Melekor quoted Timun to return to the conversation, lifting his spoon in his left hand, “I’m afraid I’m not following.” The Vulcan-Trill stirred his soup a bit and had a spoonful of it to stall for time as he tried to compose his answer.

“I mean, being a Cardassian in the open, meeting with other Cardassians ...or rather, just one for now. You didn’t get to express this part of your heritage a lot before, did you? Beyond the ...looks of you,” he gestured at his face to illustrate what he suggested. It wasn’t specist to phrase it like that, was it? Oh, shit, it totally was. Or at least, Melekor’s face grew gradually into an expression of blatant offense, and he was about to confront Timun on his way of saying things, when Savras simply spat out the mouthful of pizza she had just bitten, because she suffered from a similar desire to speak.

“You’ve met other Cardassians?” she blurted with a badly contained enthusiasm, then leaning closer and lowering her voice a notch, “What kind?” she asked cunningly, “Handsome, smart, attractive maybe?” – Melekor had gone from a look of offense to one of horror.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate!” he remarked in an oddly shrill voice. “And anyway, don’t you think I’d tell you if I had something going for me?” he followed up, his neckscales blushing profoundly. Savras simply snickered and poked her knife at her recently spat-out pizza piece.

“And risk my subconscious letting your mother know about it?” she chuckled and lifted the pizza piece again, winking at Timun with humor. “Give it to Melekor to try and conceal things from the one woman he could never lie to,” she told him, “He’s not a good liar to begin with, but it gets even worse with her.” She shoved the bite back in her mouth and grinned happily to herself. It was actually quite delicious.

“You’re the worst,” Melekor thought he’d share his opinion. Timun chuckled at that and looked at Savras with a bit of cunning – somehow, it was a lot easier to attune to her cheerful mood than to Melekor’s whatever-it-was mood (which the doctor couldn’t quite grasp nor identify).

“Not a good liar indeed.” He observed her, trying to focus on her rather than on his own worries, and a part of him had to admit she was positively attractive. A bold temper was something the Vulcan prized in friends and mates. “You seem like a sharp person, and energetic too. Do you happen to play some sports by any chance?” he asked with interest. “Racquetball? Parkourdunk? Martial arts?” he suggested some of those he was himself quite proficient in.

“Used to,” Savras smiled with nostalgia. “Work takes most of my energy these days, and I haven’t got the time I used to. Still, I do miss a good spar,” she sipped her sparkly drink. “But that’s how it is, when you’re stuck between duties.”

“She’s trying to get her daughter Joined someday,” Melekor explained distantly, fishing in his plomeek soup. “It’s costly.” Timun winced.

“My experience of Joined Trills is that they rant endlessly about everything they’ve done in their past lives, as if they always knew everything better than anyone else; there’s a very good song about that-” he interrupted himself as he realized that maybe the lyrics were a bit too rude and punk to quote. Savras figured it was the good moment to return to the previous topic.

“What about you?” she looked at Timun, “You do look like the athletic type, but that might just be your heritage…” she squinted in a guess, “Human, Romulan or Vulcan? I can never tell the three apart, at least not as far mixed race goes,” she gave an apologetic smile, “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

“I’m used to it,” Timun shrugged the awkward guess. “Vulcan,” he pointed at his pointed ears and arched-up eyebrows, “and a bit of Trill there,” he passed a hand on the markings on his skin. “More inside, but that’s for doctors to worry about. I have a pouch like normal people – Trill people,” he caught himself – “but for the rest I guess I mostly inherited from my Vulcan mother. She’s a teacher in Vulcan nerve pinch, back on Trill. She operates both as therapist and martial artist. Until two weeks ago, I was working part-time with her. If you’d like to spar with me on some free-time someday, I could certainly teach you one or two things about self-defense,” he proposed and went on some more about the other martial arts he was proficient in – Mok’bara and Galleo Manada – “...But my Vulcan strength does make me for an unfair opponent to most,” he pinched his lips. “That’s why I enjoy racquetball and parkourdunk. I’ve heard of a racquetball court somewhere on the station, but I’ve yet to find where… and someone to play with.”

While Melekor was trying his very best not to have an expression of ‘ _ ugh, Klingons _ ’ at the previous mention of Klingon Mok’bara, Savras was enthused, leaning forward a little in her chair and nodding.

“I’ve never tried racquetball, but I’d be willing to give it a go! Perhaps not today, though,” she gesticulated to her food, “this is very stuffing, and I don’t think my superiors would appreciate sweat lacing their new uniforms,” she pointed at her chest, looking down. She did wish it hadn’t been such a drab beige-grey color, honestly. It almost looked like something a Romulan military could’ve designed, except more figure hugging, thankfully.

“Me and Melekor went to  _ Starbase 74 _ once,” she remembered joyfully, and Melekor found a sudden, intense interest in his soup and water, trying not to listen. “You know, the station on the border toward Klingon space,” she extrapolated, before continuing, “I managed to convince one of them to spar with me – Kurak, I think was his name. Ah... it was quite something,” she got a dreamy expression, and Melekor stole a glance of her, his face clearly reflecting dislike and disapproval in equal amounts, which gave Timun a clue as to why he’d been so unfond of the idea to dine at the Klingon Deli. Yet, the Vulcan preferred to keep his attention on the woman.

“Sparing with a Klingon from their homeworld, that must have been quite something indeed,” he grinned. “Those I’ve practiced with were born on Trill or other places of the Federation, trying to get in touch with their own culture. I’m fairly sure your match must have been of yet another level. But I can assure you, if you want a real lesson and challenge, Vulcans make for better teachers. Especially one who spent most of his life in your homeworld,” he winked quickly then looked down his soup almost innocently, as if he weren’t actually flirting. She had to admit, she did like Timun’s attempts to puff up his mane, possibly make himself look bigger than he was. In a sense, it was endearing, and reminded her of her distant teenage years.

“And what will you do if I’m better than you?” she hinted, feeling cocky. “Not that it’s a competition, or anything.”

Melekor silently resigned, eating his soup while shaking his head at the many thoughts going through his head. He couldn’t complain, not really. It was good to have friends who were skilled in martial arts – it made up for one’s own lack of skill. And Melekor made up for their lack of skill in engineering. And so, all was well. However, he was running out of soup a lot quicker than the other two were downing their food. That was what happened to those who ended up outside of the topic – it wasn’t too bad though.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, “I’m just going to get something from the bar.” And he planned on telling Quark to take his time, while he was at it.

“If she’s your girlfriend, you’d better keep an eye on those two,” Quark told Melekor, observing the talkative pair from the counter, as Timun was now asking with very little subtlety if Savras’s daughter had a father. “I know that one’s half-Vulcan, but I hear he’s quite a ladies’ man. And not just ladies for all that matters,” he smirked while drying the bottom of a glass. Melekor snorted a little.

“Believe me Quark, I’ve never been happier since the day I decided to stop pursuing Trills as romantic partners,” he said bitterly, shaking his head. “You think you’ve got something going, and then they go get one of those worms, and it all falls apart,” he sighed. “Do you have any Cardassian beverages?” he asked finally. “I’d like to try some. Maybe buy a bottle if I end up liking it.”

The Ferengi smiled and held up his index as a plea for the other to wait. Turning to the collection of bottles, he selected a square-edged one filled with a blue liquid..

“There are different types of Kanar. If you’re a real Cardassian, you should enjoy this brand. It’s the least expensive I have in stock,” he admitted. “If you want the real deal…” he lowered himself a bit, “I’ve got some black stashed away. And talking about deal, your order’s on way,” he muttered the last words. The other gave a small nod to them.

“Knock me out with the blue,” Melekor glanced over his shoulder. Savras was picky with whom she surrounded herself with, but she could afford to be. Yet, it seemed that she and Timun were off to a good start, which was in return good for him – although he’d rather she didn’t tell him how he’d once been beaten up by some Klingons, refused to see any doctor and just kept on hacking up blood for a month and a half afterwards. Well, that couldn’t be helped now, could it?

“Say, Quark,” he looked at the Ferengi again as the little man searched for an adequate glass to serve Kanar in, “did I ever tell you I visited Ferenginar as a child? I even went to the Tower of Commerce, though I don’t remember much more than all the latinum-dressed walls.”

“You did?” the Ferengi raised his eyes up to him with interest. “And in which company so?” he assumed it couldn’t be with the boy’s mother of course.

“With my mother, of course,” Melekor grinned as he proved him wrong, “latinum can get you anywhere, even if you’re a woman,” he winked. “Latinum and oo-mox, though I don’t want to think about the latter,” he shuddered despite himself. “Temporary marriage,” he clarified, “in exchange for twenty five percent of the earnings from the holonovel she wrote based on her experiences there. Quite a deal, hm?” Who would’ve thought that Ferengi erotica would sell so well? Quark licked his teeth in approval and interest.

“A smart female,” he had to admit, “and it does pain me to say that. I’m not sure if I find her man to have been appropriately opportunist or a spineless idiot, but profit is profit… Involving a  _ female _ though…” he pinched his lips over the moral dilemma.

“You know, Quark, it does take a woman to write women’s literature. And in the rest of this quadrant, females too carry latinum. It’s too bad that there aren’t any female Ferengi authors, I think there’s a great potential of profit that’s just out there, constantly wasted,” he looked mournful, then tapped the counter, “Are you going to serve me my beverage or not?” Quark pushed the glass of blue, syrupy drink toward Melekor.

“Take it back to your table, along with your blasphemous thoughts,” he said. “Ferengi females belong in the home, raising the kids. The day we’d allow them to do  _ anything _ else, nobody will be there to raise children and it’ll be the doom of our glorious civilization. Now if you happen to like your drink, the rest of the bottle will be waiting for you,” he nodded politely.

Melekor felt a bit indignated to be pushed off so easily, and personally offended that Quark, whom he knew was a very intelligent man, wouldn’t stop to think. As if his brain, despite is size, was extremely small and limited. “I think my mother did a very good job at earning tons of latinum, all while being a single mom,” he pointed out pointedly, “perhaps the rest of us have more capable females.” He took his glass and glared at Quark, “I’ll let you know if I like it. Thank you.” He scurried back to his table, consciously avoiding to listen to anything Quark might shout after him, instead trying to reconnect to what Savras was talking about.

“-He doesn’t, sometimes I think he doesn’t trust anyone,” she was saying – and he figured she was talking about him again, “and other times I think he’s  _ too _ trusting. He wants to be a Cardassian so badly that he’s in denial about what his kin is like,” she lifted the last slice of pizza. “You mentioned he’s met one. What are they like?”

“Mannered,” was the first word Timun pronounced while trying to scoop the last spoons of his soup. “Quite charming too, and undoubtedly a skilled tailor. Melekor seems to be having a personal deal with him, the sort that required I looked out for possible incoming customers so they could have some private talk,” he told. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he added quickly as he noticed the other was coming back. “I’d say Garak is a ...fascinating person. There’s a sharpness to his eyes that tells of a smart mind, I’m pretty sure. He talks in a quite elaborate way, with a lot of body language, and I find this stimulating.” Savras’ eyes turned a little glassy for a moment, but she returned fast enough, turning her lips upwards in a smile.

“I’m relieved we are no longer talking about Klingons,” chirped Melekor as he arrived, setting his drink on the table, and then himself on the chair. “Quark is an idiot,” he added with the kind of happy face that didn’t go with the emotion he experienced.

“You’ll have to tell Timun all about it,” Savras patted his arm, and then looked over to Timun. “I have to go, need to wrap things up for the departure. It was good to meet you,” she got up and reached her hand towards him, “I look forward to our date.”

“So do I,” Timun lifted his glass at her. “Please, keep safe until then. If you’d like a bit of wrestling after the restaurant…” he winked and chuckled a little. Savras left with a tingling laughter, and Melekor just stared, first at Timun, then at Savras, then back at him again, raising his eyeridges.

“You’re going on a date?  _ With Savras? _ ” he gulped a mouthful of his drink, only to discover that it was quite sweet, and slightly minty. Fresh, even. “No, wait, it’s none of my business,” he held up a hand. “I should warn you though, she might not seem it, but she’s quite rough.” The Vulcan clapped his hands, pinned his elbows on the table with energy and rested his chin on his hands, staring at the Cardassian.

“Even better. I do like it rough,” he grinned. Only then did he realize it came out sounding a bit differently than in his head. “I mean, I like people with a bold temper, capable of stating their limits and enforcing them.” Surely, he didn’t want to put Melekor in the situation himself had been in with his former Dopterian roommate. Especially when the other person involved was one of the Cardassian’s very best friends.

“I’m sure you do,” he muttered, and couldn’t help but to glance backwards at the bar, still grudging towards Quark. The Ferengi seemed to be busy making profit, which was at least a good thing – grudges surely must be bad for profit, anyway. “Just be nice with her,” he finally decided to say, turning back to the half-Vulcan. “She’s... not had it easy when it comes to love. I’d rather she wasn’t hurt again – at least not in her heart,” he added with an eyeroll.

##  * * *

Savras on her behalf, had found the Clothier, and eyed the shop with the grin of a predator. It didn’t take long to find the owner, bent over his worktable, back turned to her.

“You must be Garak,” she made sure to check. The way the woman asked her question made the Cardassian wary. Still, he didn’t give any clue about it.

“If I  _ must _ , yes, indeed,” he confirmed with a polite smile in his voice. He turned around and looked at her and her sad clothes. “I believe I can help you?” he suggested. Instead of answering already, the woman moved, fast and confident in her sudden assault. Garak sensed the aggression in her energy, but his aching mind was too slow to react, and before he had the chance to move, she had him pinned against the wall, her left forearm across his collarbones, and her right hand slammed against the sleek surface behind him.

“Listen here,  _ tailor _ ,” she hissed at the writhing mess she’d turned him into, eyes pinched to thin slits, “I don’t know what business you have with Melekor, but I swear, if you hurt him in any way, I’ll make you rue the day you were born,” she pressed her arm against him roughly again, then finally put some distance between them, “Do we have an understanding?” It’d taken a certain amount of self-control from Garak, not to attack back despite the claustrophobic proximity and pressure.

“Why, you seem too young to be his mother, so I guess you must be a close friend of him to worry so much about his dealings with a simple tailor like myself… But if it reassures you, I  _ do not _ take advantage of my clients when taking their measurements,” he ensured innocently. “Did he word any complain about me?” he worried, wide-eyed and putting a hand on his heart as to protect it from potentially hurtful feedback. A slow, rocky laughter that carried mostly scorn left Savras, and she grinned, shaking her head at him.

“Spare me the innocence act –  _ you _ are a Cardassian,” she emphasized, “and Melekor is naïve. He might be in denial about what Cardassians are, but  _ I’m not _ ,” she crossed her arms over her chest. “I know he has some kind of deal with you. And trust me,  _ Garak _ , if I find out that you’ve led him into some sort of illicit affairs…” The tailor looked at her, aghast.

“Now this is really hurtful. Just because I am a Cardassian?” He slicked back his hair a bit in case the violence disordered them. “I am afraid I must disappoint you, really. I have quite noticed that he and I are  _ both  _ Cardassians, and that neither of us seems to relish on shady affairs – though I can mostly speak for myself on this matter, of course. Hopefully, in due time, I hope minds might open as I keep this shop open,” he moved away a bit, dusting off his clothes. “We aren’t a scoundrel sort of people, and I assure you…” he turned to look at her with serious, “it is not in my interest to drive this young man into troubles larger than him. I hope you can appreciate this.” He looked at the door behind her, then back at her. “Now, unless you’d like to afford some garment a bit more radiant than your current dress, I would be grateful if you left without one more racist statement. I believe there are laws forbidding those, if legality concerns you so much,” he nodded.

“Legality doesn’t concern me; Melekor’s safety does,” she stepped closer, rather than away, “I don’t believe for a second that a Cardassian wouldn’t be tempted to take advantage of his naïvety and desire to find his roots. I’ll be keeping my eyes on you. The fact that you haven’t brought it up yourself, nothing but confirms my suspicions. A Cardassian is never  _ just _ a Cardassian, he’s always an extension of the Cardassian Union, a representative of Cardassia, and you can call that specism if you want. It’s simply the truth.” Now that was  _ almost _ a compliment, and Garak spread his hand as to signify peaceful intention.

“About this, you are right,” he acknowledged. “All Cardassians live for Cardassia, and our devotion goes to the State first. It is no secret, but that does not mean we care about nothing but to manipulate each other. That I didn’t betray the secrecy your friend entrusted me with doesn’t reveal treachery, only honesty. Please, do  not make me mention  _ your  _ visit to him,” his gaze turned colder. “Your friendship means a lot to him, doesn’t it? Harming it won’t help him, believe me. Now leave before I call for security,” he moved toward the computer.

A loud snort was all she had to answer to all of that. She’d gotten across what she wanted, anyway, and resisted the urge to leave with parting words. Oh, she could think of many snide remarks that would no doubt have caused some damage, but they would have all been undignified. Still, Cardassians were such cowardly beings; that this one would hide behind Bajoran guards was especially pathetic, albeit not surprising. And the worse was maybe that Garak shared this last feeling. Pathetic, was what he’d become.


	6. Day 4 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Cardassians at the dinner table with a bottle of Kanar; Melekor has more questions Garak could have answers to. Meanwhile, Julian gets to meet the half-Vulcan half-social disaster that Timun is.

Nearing 1700 hours, most shops were either closed or in the process of closing, and the only avenues open for a bit longer were the restaurants. People were scarce on the Promenade (but plentiful at Quark’s) and Melekor was pretty much alone as he sidled up to Garak’s shop, watching him close up.

“Would you care to join me for dinner?” he asked quite boldly, hands folded behind his back, “Or perhaps you’ve already eaten,” he offered the other a polite way out, in case he didn’t feel inclined to accept the invitation.

Garak looked at him, then at the lock of his door. He honestly did not feel like sitting among a crowd of aliens who despised him. Most of the time he managed to ignore the looks, the fingers pointed in his back, the whispers, the name of his own race murmured like an insult on lips and minds alike. But now wasn’t most of the time. Melekor’s friend had pushed his buttons when he was already vulnerable, and the Cardassian wasn’t sure he could afford being kind, tactful, polite, patient, resilient and all this shit that was by now expected of him. Taken for granted. He felt miserable, trapped, and in quite some pain still, both moral and physical. Keeping up his usual facade took a lot of effort but he simply could not allow himself to break. Not now. Not here.

“I’m not sure I feel like restaurant,” he admitted frankly. Melekor felt a sting of pity for him as he figured he must be in even more pain now than he had been before.

“No,” he answered quite softly, “I was going to propose we’d go to my quarters. I bought a bottle of blue Kanar from Quark, and I thought we could share it – and, don’t worry about my roommate. He gets subtleties and won’t be in the way,” he offered a small smile. “I really am sorry it’s taking me so long to get you what you need.”

“If it were so easy to obtain, I wouldn’t have required help,” the tailor acknowledged as he finished locking his door. “I must admit I would certainly be glad to meet this bottle of yours,” he crossed his arms behind his back, ready to follow the other. The woman hadn’t been mentioned, and the Cardassian assumed she wouldn’t be there, for which he was grateful.

Thus, Melekor happily led the way, though he caught himself overly concerned and anxious, and it took him some moments to realize it was just about time for another dosage of his own medicine. He’d have to do that in the privacy of his bedroom.

“I was quite hoping you could give me an inkling about what Cardassian food to replicate,” he mentioned as they went and entered the turbolift, “I don’t know much about it.” Truth was that his mother had never indulged him. She’d only spoken of Cardassia once that he could remember, at his eleventh birthday. The rest of the time, she avoided the topic altogether. 

“Ah, yes…” Garak nodded. “I suppose we have a broad variety of dishes, from the most frugal and ...perplexing, to the most regal and refined. It all depends on social class, and I would recommend avoiding attempting to replicate any luxurious dish. It usually turns out somewhat awful, if I should be honest.” At least, it did to one who knew what the real deal tasted like. “We have many sorts of eggs and plenty of ways to cook them, and stews of all sorts, really. Seafood, fish and bird meat, roots, some cereals, a lot of seeds, varieties of berries, few fleshy fruits and vegetables. Some consider that a simple way to make any dish feel a bit Cardassian is to use yamok sauce as condiment ...and I wouldn’t disagree entirely with this,” he reckoned. “Cardassians often have bit of a sweet tooth. We appreciate a large variety of tastes of course, but it often ends up combined with sugar anyway. Bittersweet, sour-sweet, salty-sweet… Replicators on this station make for an actually quite good sem’hal stew. Yamok sauce fits along just fine,” he smiled, trying to be a bit humorous despite how pathetic he felt – was he really bolting through the guts of Terok Nor in this lift, talking about his homeland’s food to a half-Cardassian who knew  _ nothing _ about the Union’s culture? And trying to enjoy it, holding to this interaction as if it were some sort of blessing?

How laughable.

“Then we’ll have some sem’hal stew tonight,” Melekor agreed cheerily as the doors opened and released them into the Habitat Ring, then continued, “I wish I would have done this sooner.”

“Sooner might have been during the Occupation and conflictual times with the Federation,” Garak murmured. “Those times wouldn’t have been the best to discover our culture. We aren’t just the Cardassians people see, but we are what we are nonetheless.” It wasn’t so likely of him to speak more darkly of home and the people there, but while the delusion was an integral part of his love for Cardassia, it was a danger for Melekor. And were the young man to fall for it, the fall might be harder and steeper than he’d ever imagined, and could splatter many around, for all his father was. Melekor let out a mixture of a snort, an exhale and a smile, looking a little at the carpet.

“I meant,  _ talking to you _ ,” he clarified, feeling a bit like a stupid boy again, which caused him to blush from embarrassment. “I’ve obviously always known you were on the station, but…” now he felt even more silly, and he had to wipe it away with a laughter that wasn’t exactly a laughter, “I’m sorry, now I’m making you uncomfortable; please don’t be, I’m the one who is awkward.” Garak observed him and as his gaze turned somewhat soft, he diverted, a faint smile on his lips.

“Everybody knows there’s a Cardassian tailor on the station,” he said factually. “Some view me as a threat, others as an insult to Bajoran freedom; a number spread the ongoing rumor that would have me being a spy, and there are of course those who call me a curiosity – it may even be flattering in the mouth of a few. And finally, certain see me as but a tailor, and it might be the most appropriate. My dear Mister…” he looked at him, “you must have heard a lot of things. Considering, I am thankful that you could go past them and meet me when I could have simply proven some prejudices right. Your heritage is a heavy one, and not everything about it is most enjoyable. I am reminded of it myself most everyday,” he nodded more formally. “Yet, what we are isn’t just our biology nor what others tell about us. It is what we decide to be.” Melekor absorbed the kind words like a sponge thirsty for water, and could relate. Of course. Still, the last bit was quite optimist, almost like words from the Symbiosis Commission, or Starfleet. Naïvety, he reckoned, one that he disagreed with.

“But what we decide to be, is restricted by biology, society and class,” he had to contradict, feeling just a little bad about being a downer. “There has not been a single world I’ve visited that didn’t have social divides, locking people down. Equality will never exist, and we will never be able to decide entirely what we are going to be, no matter what the Federation will have you believe.” Thankfully they were just about to reach his quarters, and with that, he was sure it wouldn’t be too much of an ordeal to change topics to something more delightful.

“Sometimes a man isn’t about where he is and what he is, but what choices he makes,” the tailor pointed up with a finger. “And choices occur to all of us. Our causes may be different, our consequences may be smaller or larger, but the power binding them is still ours beyond shackles of steel, law, or latinum. It is what makes misery enjoyable at time,” he grinned. He looked at the door they stopped in front of, then at Melekor, silent in his cunning.

“Imprisoned but free?” the young man asked with an arched eyeridge, then laid his hand on the panel controlling the door’s opening. “I sure hope that particular survival skill won’t be needed during your visit,” he guided Garak in with an open hand, “Welcome to my – well, mostly Timun’s – highly temporary home.”

“Thank you,” the Cardassian replied politely. It  _ did _ feel weird to be invited over, as it wasn’t something he was used to on DS9, especially with strangers. The feeling of weirdness increased as bit more at the sight of the topless Vulcan who quite suddenly bolted through the living room, making a somersault jump over the couch, then flipped in a wheel over the low table and picked a ball that laid there in the same momentum, then ran  _ up _ against the wall to dunk the ball in a basket fixed at the very top, near the ceiling, and hung himself to it. It was about when Timun realized the others’ presence, and especially that of Garak. He gasped and let himself fall down, landing with ease.

“I didn’t know we were to have visit!” he apologized. “If you’ll excuse me…” he hurried to his room. Garak looked at Melekor, with a pinched yet amused smile on his lips and said nothing. The engineer looked like he was going to die.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted after Timun, then turning to Garak, lowering his voice to a better level; “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Well, let’s go in then,” he made sure to close the door behind them quite swiftly, then went to the table and dragged out a chair, gesticulating to the other, “Please, sit, make yourself at home, I…”

“...Don’t need any assistance yet?” Garak suggested, coming in without displaying any sign of embarrassment. He was good at appearing at ease in just any situation, even if that oddly made the awkward situation seem more uncanny than they would to most. That was probably what came along when one was just as skilled with a needle, a secateur or a phaser alike. Melekor nodded.

“Again, I’m sorry… First, I need to... uh,” he sighed, “pump myself full of toxins,” he decided to run down the gist of it, shaking his head a little. “I’ll be back in just a moment – don’t worry about Timun, he isn’t usually half-naked on the walls,” he explained, then darted to the safety of his room to get his phelenaxinide injection.

Garak sat, feeling increasingly awkward about the entire situation but forcing himself to look relaxed when the Vulcan came back first.

“I’m sorry,” he too apologized, then realized the tailor was alone and clearly wondered where the other had disappeared.

“In his room,” the tailor answered the unspoken question.

“Oh,” the Vulcan nodded. “Am I allowed in for dinner?” he inquired, a bit uncertain of what to do with himself now.

“I don’t think it was the plan,” Garak gave the honest answer, trying not to sound rude.

“Ah, good,” the Vulcan let out a sigh of relief. “I was planning to have a call with my family, and I wouldn’t want to miss the right timing for it. I think I should probably let you enjoy your dinner together and have mine in my own room. If you’re not finished yet afterwards,” he looked at Melekor who was returning from his room, “I’ll probably head out and try to find this racquetball court I’ve heard about.”

“Oh…” Garak reacted as if he knew exactly what Timun was talking about, and only then realized he didn’t exactly feel like telling more about it, because he knew very well who the players practicing there were. And while he wouldn’t be opposed to Chief O’Brien finding a new partner for sports, one not-Julian, he… well. “I’ve heard about it when Quark organized some bets on a match,” the Cardassian developed just enough to get the matter out of his hands. This was the  _ worst _ muddle he’d gotten in and he was quite horrified with himself.

“True that, I’ve heard that one of the doctors here is a player,” Timun remembered. Garak just nodded, distantly gazing into nowhere. He wasn’t going to try saying anything else. “Well, if you have what you need,” the Vulcan got closer to the replicator to get some hasperat, “Have a nice dinner together!”

“Yes, thank you,” Melekor looked at him vanishing behind the doors. “Shall we get some glasses?” he lifted the bottle he’d brought from his room. Garak smiled in approval.

“I’ll be your guest.”

The sweet blue felt fresh on the tongue and Garak realized a little too late that his stomach was empty. Oh, it was quite positive in that it allowed the alcohol to affect him faster, numbing him in a cozy embrace that took his tinnitus away, but it also was quite negative in that it ...well, allowed the alcohol to affect him faster. He hadn’t planned on getting tipsy.

“How do thirteen strips of latinum sound to you?” Melekor asked around their second glass of Kanar, causing him to blink. “For the deal.”

“Oh,” Garak raised his glass again. “A fair price, most certainly. The photograph is most certainly worth it,” he smiled. “It was taken by Ywanna Kel herself, wasn’t it? Quite a precious item you have… Now I think about it, you must have found her book to be most enlightening on the topic of our culture?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the engineer had to admit. “She didn’t want me to read it, so I haven’t.” Garak could quite figure out why.

“A pity,” he commented nonetheless. “I suppose you don’t plan on getting into trouble with justice, but your mother’s book does give an interesting insight on the Cardassian Code of Jurisprudence. An impressive work, coming from a Betazoid.”

“Betazed is not so dissimilar from Cardassia, really,” Melekor argued. “No matter what you do there, someone else always knows. There’s no crime on Betazed,” he extrapolated; “it would even be nice, if people weren’t so... imposing,” he ended the sentence with dislike. “No privacy, no integrity, no subtleties. No lying, perhaps, but that also involves white lies. Betazoids might be resilient to the rude truth, I’m not.” He admitted with a sigh.

“Mmh…” Garak sipped on his drink thoughtfully. “I’m afraid you’ll find that privacy is relative on Cardassia, but if it makes it any better, Cardassians can lie. Some would even say it’s one of our national sports,” he chuckled. He moved a bit and suddenly felt like the entire room was swinging along with him – he held himself to the table in a hurry and blinked as he recovered his balance just as fast. Melekor had noticed and Garak had to smile. “I believe the sem’hal stew would make a timely entrance now,” he excused his state.

“Of course,” the host apologized as well – Melekor couldn’t help but feel bad over his idea to make Garak drink in hope to make him more talkative. He hadn’t meant to make him sick. The flaw in his plan appeared even more obvious when he quickly ambled to the replicator and found his stride to be a bit less steady than expected. He’d forgotten that he’d get tipsy as well. With a little “woops,” he landed near the replicator and ordered two plates of sem’hal stew and a bottle of yamok sauce. The way back was thankfully more straightforward and he sat back on his chair after giving Garak his plate.

“I have to admit, I’m concerned with my manners,” he sighed. “You must find me to be quite the barbarian, but I guess that growing up with a Betazoid makes one blunt. And I’m not sure if it’s so charming to other Cardassians, as it is to the Betazoids.” Truth to be told, he wasn’t a very good Betazoid in regards to manners either. It was like being double talented, except that, for him, it was more along the lines of double failed. Or at least, that was how he felt.

“I wouldn’t think of you to be as blunt as you make it sound, Mister Kel,” Garak ate a little just so to sponge the alcohol within. “You are smart, and enough so not to tell all that is on your mind. Your lies aren’t thought through a lot, but for one who was raised in a culture devoid of them, they are quite outstanding,” he flattered him a bit. “I ignore what it is like to be a hybrid plant that was removed from the soil of its birth to grow in different places; I’m only a flower in a pot and, and even away from my land, I still have my roots with me. I can only imagine your struggles. But again, our roots aren’t all we are. They give us stability, but we can always grow new ones, wherever we see fit for us to do so.”

“I hope you’re right,” Melekor answered, wondering what sense really laid beyond those poetic words. Was Garak really a spy? Or Cardassia’s best tailor, there to represent his nation’s talent for fine arts and crafts? Either way, each moment spent on the station was a moment away from his homeland, where the man no doubt had family and friends. He must miss them. Family… he sighed. 

“The question,” he spoke again, “is whether I have a long way to walk before I get actually  _ good _ at... social culture,” he tried to explain, furthering his point a little by helpfully waving his fork over his food. “I wouldn’t worry about it if it was just me, but... I would like to meet my father,” he couldn’t believe he dared to use that word, “ _ if _ he’s willing,” he hurriedly added. “But then, the way I act must surely reflect on him. I don’t want to reflect badly. That is all.”

“Your situation is tricky, Kel,” Garak told more sincerely, pronouncing the name with a certain fondness. “Children are everything to a Cardassian ; the only thing that goes before family is the State. But said child should be one they recognized as their own, one they know exists in the first place,” he explained, barely aware of the irony laying in the words he spoke. “A father is a man who nurses his baby, who helps them to grow up strong, confident, smart, balanced ...as much as he can. He cares to offer the best education he can afford, and as such, may not always be part of his child’s life – boarding schools, training camps…” he suggested, waving his own fork as well. “Love on Cardassia takes many shapes, but blood ties aren’t warrants of the same sort of love that parents give their children in the Federation. Blood ties warrant responsibilities. If you do pursue your research, you will bestow responsibilities on this man and on yourself… So, a question for you would be: are your shoulders broad enough for two?” he stared at the other with eyes that gave away no emotion, no clue about his own thoughts. He only presented the equation. When eventually Garak’s stare became unpleasant, Melekor blinked slowly and then diverted his gaze. It was a real question – he’d asked himself similar ones for a long time. Impulse wanted him to just say yes and be over with it.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered, but with a contradictory tone of confidence, “I don’t know what loyalties my father has. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I haven’t experienced Cardassia first hand,” he scooped his food, managed a small bite and continued with his explanation. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be trying to find him through you, I’d go through the Bureau of Alien Affairs and genealogy. No, this is better,” he pointed his fork at the other, “because if I make the judgement that we can’t meet as family, I will meet him as a stranger. If I went through administration, I wouldn’t be able to do that,” he gathered his food with a small smile, glancing up at Garak as to ask him “ _ now, do you understand why I need you? _ ”

Garak returned a smile holding the sigh of slight exasperation he didn’t exhale, trying to keep amusement over the irony of the situation instead. Did Melekor want him to  _ spy _ for his little family business? Be his  _ private eye _ like in those Terran novels Julian enjoyed so much?

“Maybe you should read your mother’s books,” he suggested. “They do offer a certain vision of Cardassia, after all,” he wet his lips and continued eating slowly, trying to focus on the taste of the food.

“There were times when I was seriously tempted to. Once I even went as far as to try,” Melekor shoved a snicker back down into his throat. “But I was only six, and I didn’t understand most of the words.” He shuddered. “My mother found me. And she wasn’t happy,” he let out a puff of air and then shrugged. “I can’t base my vision of a man around what he was twenty eight years ago, anyway; people change… You might call me naïve, but even though I’ve never met him, I still…” he was going to use too strong words, and instead settled with, “have to meet him.”

“I’ll give you that,” the other nodded and served himself some more Kanar. It was true that the portrait painted in the book was somewhat outdated and endearing – Garak had found it both touching and quite embarrassing as it was ...an intimate portrayal, to say the least. Probably nothing abnormal for a Betazoid, but for a Cardassian… “But then. How much are you expecting from me?” he went on rather than linger on those embarrassing memories. “You may as well tell me with more exactitude,” he opened the question, observing the other through a distant gaze, as if asking but a very mundane little thing. Melekor wasn’t sure this was the time to deliver his list of things he wanted to know, but the Kanar eased the choice in a direction he wouldn’t have taken otherwise.

“I want to know his profession, if he has a family, if there are other children, what his voice sounds like, what he looks like by now,” he had to pause to take a breath and took his glass too, tilting it and watching the liquid inside. He wished this wasn’t a business deal. It felt wrong to talk about it like this. “I want to know what’s expected of me, the risks. I want to know if he has enemies, who or what to avoid on his behalf.” Then he lifted his gaze to look at Garak again. The prospect of learning things about his father should have enthused him, but somehow he felt sorrow. It was perplexing, the actual pain he felt.

Garak kept silent for a while, simply looking at the young man sitting like a mirror in front of him. Sons without fathers. The two of them were different, but that didn’t make them less similar where they shared similarities. The tailor may not be half-Betazoid, he could still empathize more than enough. More so than he wanted too, but that wasn’t what mattered anymore.

“I can answer most of those questions,” he suddenly told, his voice clear and slightly high-pitched in mannerism. “In fact, I would be willing to arrange another dinner for us to appreciate those answers,” he arranged his food a little in his plate, packing the sem’hal tight together with his fork. “But I am afraid I  _ will _ need to be in better shape first.” Melekor’s shoulders sunk as part of his anxiety left him, and he caught himself smiling quite softly.

“I think I’d like that,” he answered in honesty, sipping some Kanar and then refilling his glass. He hoped they’d be more equal, then. That Garak wouldn’t feel like he depended on Melekor for help – it didn’t matter how many bottles of Kanar he’d buy him, if Garak wasn’t comfortable in the situation anyway. A part of him hesitated, though. Perhaps Garak wouldn’t be interested in his company once the debt was paid. Perhaps Melekor  _ was _ just a bothersome tool for Garak to get what he wanted – after all, he’d been unpleasant before he’d known of the offer.

“Garak,” he suddenly burst, surprising even himself, “once we’ve both fulfilled our halves of the deal, how would you like to handle things? Would you rather I kept out of your way? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, and I don’t want you to keep on staying in contact out of pity,” he added.

“How thoughtful of you, Kel…” Garak pinched his lips and focused on gathering his food for a moment, trying to figure an answer in that Kanar-swamped, aching brain of his. “While I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you again, you must understand that some friendships aren’t most beneficial. Take our Chief of Security,” he set his eyes back on Melekor. “I am certain you must have noticed that he is quite a thorough officer, and, while I wouldn’t want to call him paranoid… Well, let’s just say that for some reason, he keeps tabs on me. I would like to think he simply misses his former Cardassian employers, but I’m afraid nobody on this station holds any warm feeling for my kind. And we Cardassians do hate the cold…” he sighed. “To associate yourself further with me might be prejudicial to you. You’d get your personal file,” he warned.

“I think I already do,” the engineer figured, “considering my involvement with Timun and my frequent contacts with Quark. He won’t have anything interesting to report, though. I have no intention of involving myself in questionable business while the Bureau of Alien Affairs is still processing my application.” He placed a finger on the table, tapping it a little, “And were I to find out someone around me does, I’ll turn them over,” he finally resolved, “nice and clean.”

“How touching,” Garak smiled genuinely. “Only I’m afraid our Constable isn’t the sort to forget anything. I have helped him plenty of times myself, and he still doesn’t seem to trust me,” he told with a sigh of disappointment. “Oh, I can’t fault him however. I would do the same. Which is why… I cannot trust you either,” he told Melekor. “At least, not for just every and any business we might have to convey. It is all the best for you as well… And it’s still a place to start.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Melekor agreed, taking his glass and smelling the contents with a distant humming, “I’m glad you’re not offended,” he added in sincerity. “However, I thought, perhaps, if I learned more about you, I might learn things about me,” he took the bottle of Kanar, looked at it and considered whether to cork it or not. “I lack a frame of reference, and you  _ are _ the first Cardassian I’ve talked to, even more so shared dinner with –” he reached the bottle towards the other, “Would you like more, or should I put it away?”

“I think I had enough for tonight,” Garak smiled sweetly, a gentle warmth to his eyes as he declined. He gathered what sem’hal was left, eating it with the special fondness that the last bites can trigger as a meal nears its end. “I am thankful for this dinner, I am,” he ensured. “I simply wouldn’t want to darken it with certain stories about my previous life. Oh, it was a happy life, mostly, but it wasn’t devoid of abuse either. Disappointment, unmet expectations, discording aspirations, clashing opinions and betrayal. My parents weren’t very pleased with my choice to become but a tailor when I could have been so much more,” he sighed. “They don’t seem to understand how much I could desire to stitch together sleeves of fabric… but I like it,” he gave a small shrug of bittersweet resignation. “I love them still, dearly so.” Melekor felt a sting of pain, and for a moment he worried his medicine might not be doing its thing, then realized it was just normal sympathy. He gave Garak a sorry look, nodding a little.

“It’s never easy to disappoint your parents,” he started putting the plates together so he could bring them to the replicator. “My mother wanted me to go into psychology and then branch into criminology,” he snorted and got to his feet, “I don’t know why,” he admitted. “I don’t even like psychology. I spent my entire teenage years losing my mind to the flood of emotions and thoughts other people had – what made her think I would want to  _ study  _ it?” he let out a sour laugh, “She always wanted me to be a Betazoid!” It wasn’t until he’d placed the plates in the replicator and dissolved them, that he realized that for once, he’d actually said too much. “Do you want dessert?” he suggested as to change the topic, “Some manner of berries with whipped cream perhaps?”

“Hm? senket berries maybe,” Garak agreed. “Maybe she only felt competent to raise the Betazoid part of you… Maybe addressing your Cardassian side would have brought forth feelings she couldn’t have hidden? Parents…” he muttered. “They try hard, but in the end, we must always disappoint them. That is a proof of their success. The cycle is completed when they can look at you and admit they were wrong. And when you can look at them and admit you were wrong. And yet both love each other more than ever.”

Melekor nodded while bringing the two bowls from the replicator. The servings were very pretty – not as he would’ve served them if he had been the chef, but sufficient still. Gently, to make no unpleasant sound, he set Garak’s bowl on the table, walked himself over to his chair and slumped into it.

“She’s not disappointed,” he straightened up and nudged his spoon, preparing a bite. “I think she’s confused more than disappointed. She really thought she made the right choice for me – the thing is,” he nibbled a berry and made a bit of a frown, “The thing is that she might pick up what I feel, but she doesn’t understand me. Betazoids do that,” he added hastily. “It’s a shortcut to them, to feel what others feel, sometimes hear their thoughts. They don’t  _ need _ to... to question their assumptions. To check in if they are right or wrong. And for the most part, that works well for them,” he sighed, “When I quit studying psychology and started studying engineering, she was concerned I wouldn’t manage, because it ‘ _ isn’t in your blood _ ’ – and you know, I instantly knew she meant, because I’m Cardassian,” he shrugged. “So when I excelled and graduated highest in my class, she was surprised. What would you make of that?”

“That you would make a very fine Cardassian woman-” Garak realized too late what terribly rude comment he was making and quickly added two more syllables to the word, “ _ -izer _ .” He smiled nervously, trying to keep composed – Melekor  _ had _ noticed what Garak had initially said, and his mouth twitched into a bit of a grin as he only barely managed not to laugh at it. “Cardassian women dominate the science,” continued the tailor, “but they do appreciate a man who is well-able in those domains,” he explained. “I may or may not have taken certain courses just to score more points with the ladies myself,” he chuckled. “Teenagehood…” he gestured and stuffed some berries and cream in his mouth to shut up a bit.

“That  _ is _ quite interesting though,” Melekor finally realized with astonishment, putting his spoon in his food. “I always assumed Cardassians have a low sex drive, since... I hardly could’ve gotten that from my mother,” he felt his neck scales get hot and he had to resist the urge to lay his face against the table and hide. This was getting increasingly awkward, and Garak’s eyed widened almost as a way not to laugh out loud instead. He was getting a bit tensed, and his neck scales too were heating up, but he felt mostly amused. Melekor cleared his throat, “I think I was attracted to someone once,” he finally ushered the words from his mouth. “Hasn’t happened since. Maybe I just got discouraged,” he snorted to himself, “better for everyone, I guess.”

“Well, if there’s one thing I can say about most Cardassians, is that if we were judged by our sexuality, there would be a certain amazement to be found in the amount of creativity that some of our citizens can express,” he snorted and finally started to laugh. “But you haven’t been around Cardassians a lot,” he tried to recover his serious. “Maybe you’d be more interested in someone more like you. There’s a genetic factor in attraction, after all,” he still shook a bit with repressed laughter in between words. He didn’t mean to sound like Julian, nor did he mean to think of the doctor amidst such a topic. “My personal experience would be that it would take a  _ significant _ personality for me to get past the smoothness of most humanoid skins. It looks like they’re ...lacking something. A body I identify as practically mutilated isn’t the most attractive thing,” he lifted his spoon, chuckling a little again.

Garak’s laughter was infectious, and it didn’t take long for Melekor to join in, releasing some of his own stress in the process. He’d never thought about it like that before, and for some reason the first person he thought about when Garak mentioned  _ practically mutilated _ , was Odo. Almost immediately, he felt sorry for the thought, even though it couldn’t have possibly reached the shapeshifter and hurt him. Still, he wondered who it was, the person Garak had this  _ personal experience _ towards. Oh, he wasn’t going to tell him he’d caught the hint, because he was fairly sure Garak hadn’t even thought about it, and would be disturbed if it was brought up. Too personal, Melekor assumed.

“It’s kind of amusing to hear it phrased like this,” he settled down into calm, studying his spoonful. He’d gotten so used to being the one considered  _ mutilated _ that he’d forgotten there must be another side to the coin. “It’s so different. Being in a context where you’re  _ normal _ . At least in regard to looks. I do hope you’re right,” he shuffled some dessert into his mouth.

“It does annoy some that, as a matter of fact… I’m often right,” Garak grinned. “But I wouldn’t presume of your experience to come. They are for you to make.” He’d blushed a bit from the laughing and now felt slightly embarrassed by the darkness on his cheeks and neck, but then froze at once when Timun’s door opened and the Vulcan appeared, clad in a tight racquetball suit, mostly black, with short sleeves of a cyan semi-transparent fabric creeping over the torso and down the sides, just enough to give a glimpse of Trill markings. Outrageous was what it was.

“Having a good time, I hear?” the athlete asked. “Don’t mind me, I’m just heading out. Oh, Garak,” he paused in his way. “Do you think this outfit would catch a bit of attention?” he asked.

“I’m probably sure of it,” the tailor answered, “but once you get close to Quark’s, you’ll blend in,” he ensured.

“Oh, well, that sounds good enough. I do hope to be questioned at bit. I thought a bait might be a good way to fish information as to where this racquetball court is. And I make for a very fine bait,” he gestured at himself. “Have a good night, and thank you for your feedback,” the Vulcan bowed a bit and left.

Garak nodded, then looked at Melekor, bending over the table a bit to whisper, “ _The spine doesn’t make for the lack of scales, that’s how it is!_ ” Melekor nodded, looking at the door and trying to remove the mental image of Timun in that ridiculous outfit from his memory. Why did sportsmen always have to wear such ugly attire? Wait, it was something he could ask Garak, actually.

“Is it some kind of unwritten rule that sportswear has to be ugly, or something?” he hastened to put some cream in his own mouth, to hold back the laughter that was threatening to burst from him.  _ The topics they discussed, though _ , and the fact that Garak just went along with the trail of conversation, enjoying it, even.

“Hahaha, there’s a reason I mostly tailor women’s dresses!” Garak grinned. “I think that when sport isn’t considered enough like an art, but rather like a military performance, the clothes get just as dull and ridiculous. I cannot tell you what a pain it is to see one of my good friends here constantly wearing this Starfleet uniform,” he shook his head in disapproval. “Oh, the shade of blue thankfully fits quite nicely with his skin tone, but I do not think the black is necessary on him. He’s already quite slim and athletic. He could really use something more elaborate.” And there he was,  _ again _ . Garak stabbed the cream a bit and twisted his spoon in the wound. “Most sports are quite repulsive, though, if I should be honest. Especially the contact ones. Way too intimate and uncivilized, if you care for my opinion…” he tried to away the conversation from the dangerous topic, but too late. Melekor’s mind had stopped. 

_ Doctor Bashir? _ the engineer wondered. It  _ could _ be him – he’d mentioned Garak to Melekor, after all. He had to wonder what Garak saw in the man, as he’d seemed like a perfectly normal human, not even particularly attractive. Kind-looking, though. Realizing there was a pause, he replayed in his head what had been said, and finally made a short ‘ _ ha _ ’.

“I completely agree,” he spoke with sudden passion, “it’s very primitive. I don’t like it at all. But... it does have its advantages. If you keep close friends who are skilled in the arts,” he leaned forward, “good for protection,” he nodded in agreeance with himself and sat back. “It’s one of the first valuable things I learned; always keep physically-capable allies.” He refrained from adding anything about beating the crap out of others as revenge, and that he quite enjoyed letting his own anger out at times, even though he required his opponent to be cornered and held down for him to land a punch.

“Smart,” Garak approved with a nod. “I certainly could use such allies myself, as some of the people who come by my shop aren’t as interested in clothes as much as in spilling venom at me,” he could see Savras’s face again. “I do understand that they have the best of intentions, and simply care for their own, but I would rather I weren’t seen as a potential threat just because I am Cardassian,” he shook his head and had another spoon. “But I suppose it wouldn’t help my cause to answer with violence. Diplomacy is required. A bit too often still, and I am afraid it might get dull someday…” he pinched his lips. “We may have some kind of peace; the war goes on in the heads. I sometimes wonder if my parents realize that, as such, I’m not just a tailor. I am a Cardassian. I am ‘ _ so much more _ ’. Just like they first wanted. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t have chosen this place to set up a shop, if you hadn’t considered to become so much more,” Melekor pointed out, quite softly. “Maybe you were subconsciously trying to please your parents. It wouldn’t surprise me. Remember, I did study psychology, if only for just a while,” he twirled his spoon in his bowl and caught some of its contents, lifting it to his mouth. “Anyone Cardassian who can sell merchandize to a Bajoran, is ‘ _ so much more _ ’. It takes a certain kind of intelligence,” he motioned the spoon towards Garak, “You have it. I don’t,” and then put it in his own mouth. The tailor chuckled gently at the flattery.

“I like to think I have a certain charm and honesty with a dose of mystery that women can appreciate – I learned it from them,” he admitted easily. “Now they look at me and they wonder... why is he here? How does he survive here? Tenacity is intriguing. To some it is threatening. But over time, I think I’ve earned my right to stay on the Promenade,” he nodded. “Or at least, that story sells pretty well,” he smirked. “It’s all about what they want to hear. Everybody seems to like a good theater play, especially when it’s free.”

“I guess I’m a woman, then,” the engineer couldn’t suppress a slight laughter, putting the spoon aside to instead fish for the napkin, which he started to fold. “Haven’t you considered that them being women, it might not be that they wonder those things and want to know the answer – perhaps they just want to take care of you and make you feel better?” he asked further, daring to be a bit cheeky. “You don’t make it any easier with the dressmaking; they must wonder  _ who _ you are sewing those dresses for,” he smirked, “because there  _ has _ to be someone special in your mind. Else it wouldn’t be romantic.” His mother had taught him that much. Garak gave it a thought and laughed.

“Maybe they do… Maybe they’d even be right to think so,” he suggested, cheeky as well, to hide the truth in plain sight. Oh, yes, there was a woman, but it hurt way too much to think of her. He gathered his berries in his bowl, cleaning the edges, and looked at Melekor. “And you? What sort of dress would you like to wear? You would be ravishing in this season’s fashion.”

“You tell me, you’re the tailor,” he’d answered almost before he understood the question. Once he did, he felt his neck scales get dark again, and he cleared his throat. “It’s not a very proper proposition,” he pointed out, though he wasn’t offended. “I don’t think I’d wear a dress very well,” he picked up the spoon again and scraped the last of his dessert from the bottom of the bowl, “I’ve never been particularly good at wearing clothes. Then again, when most clothes are sewn for people with significantly smaller necks…”

The tailor nodded in agreement, “It did catch my attention. Nothing I cannot alter however, if you’d like to pass by my shop again. While dresses bring me most of the income, a good half of my orders are such adjustments,” he told, sliding his hand over the table. “Replicated clothes might look like clothes, but they are never tailored perfectly to match most anyone’s body. Not that I should tell you too much about this, because it’s one of those things that, once you’ve become conscious of it, you cannot unsee it. And everywhere you look, your eyes start to hurt,” he pinched his lips. “Quite offensive, but I suppose it is why the likes of me are still needed after all.” He relaxed back in his seat and took his last spoon of dessert with gusto. Then put it back in the bowl and held his hands on his crossed laps. “This has been a very nice dinner, Mister Kel. The sort I didn’t get to enjoy for too many years now. I thank you,” he nodded, appreciating that the pleasantness of the moment did manage to ease his pain for awhile. It was but a sursis , but hopefully, it bought him a little time. “Concerning our little deal… I will do my part, but I would also urge you to bring me the medicine as soon as you obtain it. Unless Doctor Bashir would happen to be around,” he gave a sad smile. “I am quite certain he would take it personally, and he tends to get angry when this happens. This boy could use some anger management…” Melekor smiled a bit too warmly at the last sentence – now he was  _ certain _ Bashir was the one who held Garak’s affections. Quite an unexpected choice; doctors were terribly invasive, after all.

“I’ll make sure not to offend your friend,” he calmed Garak, “he’s an interesting personality, that Doctor Bashir, but way too curious for his own good.” Melekor made a face. “He  _ does  _ have an infuriating talent for figuring out exactly what he shouldn’t ask about, simply to do just that. It’s a pity it makes me so nervous; he does seem exceptionally brilliant – for someone in Starfleet,” he added with annoyance. “My personal – or rather, my mother’s – choice of doctor is Vulcan,” he added, “he doesn’t ask more than his task requires of him.”

“A good choice,” Garak nodded. “I must say that my interest in befriending a doctor, out of all Starfleet crew, may or may not have to do with being the only Cardassian on board. The doctor is young, he’d never been assigned anywhere before, and his level of prejudice against our kind seemed significantly lower than the rest of his colleagues – I have suspicions that some may even have partaken in war against us some years ago,” he winced. “A fresh medical officer ready to seize the world…” he described Bashir, raising his hand up and grasping the air, “As someone meant to care for others, he seemed like an interesting ally. Maybe not the most suited to defend, but at least, were I to be treated a bit roughly, he could mend me if I’m lucky enough to survive,” he grinned. “His curiosity can be annoying, but it’s all about learning to make good use of the traits of people around you, Kel. And when you are to stay somewhere for the long term, it never hurts to be acquainted with those who rule the place in way to get favourable treatments.” That was all the extent of his feelings for Julian. Purely tactical. If he believed it hard enough, Melekor might even buy it. The young man snorted at the thought of what those ‘ _ favourable treatments _ ’ might be, grinning for a second then shaking it off.

“Clever move,” he pointed out. He wagered that Garak’s attachment to Bashir might even be of use to Cardassia, since, if Garak was fond of him, the doctor likely had similar fondness for him. And fondness could do all to loosen one’s lips. “I suppose friendship in this constellation is just a bonus,” he leaned back in his chair too, closing his eyes. “You’ll have to forgive me if I won’t challenge your ‘ _ Cardassian friend monopoly _ ’ with him, though,” he muffled a yawn with his left hand. “He makes me nervous. I don’t like when people take interest in my body, even less so what’s inside of it.”

“A sentiment I share,” Garak relaxed in his chair, though he was a bit tensed over this very concern, for personal reason. “If I should be honest, Cardassian doctors can be a lot more invasive and may not always ask for an authorization to perform certain explorations. The will of the Ministry of Justice or even Central Command overrides any other, quite naturally. I would assume that you haven’t been identified, by the way? Oh,” he smiled upon the realization that the other might not understand what it implied, “You  _ might _ want to know that, if you do get to Cardassia, you  _ may _ be welcomed in a way that  _ could _ seem slightly unusual. ...In the form of getting one of your teeth ripped out of your mouth. It’s a bit rough, I know, but if it reassures you, all Cardassian children undergo this procedure at age ten, giving out a molar.” He chuckled, “It does make for funny tenth birthday pictures!”

“That might be one of the few things my mother actually told me about!” Melekor shared once he’d stopped chuckling, “It was the kind of recurring story she’d use to dissuade me from my attempts to convince her to let me see my father – it worked until I was ten, at which point I asked her if I could go have my tooth taken out. You should have seen the expression on her face; she brought that one on herself.” He sighed, “I was very disappointed, actually; I’d looked forward to it. One of my worst birthdays, I think she might still feel bad about it.” A soft expression had creeped over the tailor’s face and body language.

“How endearing, Mister Kel. I hope this’ll make your tooth’s removal all the more enjoyable then. I must say that, for one who was grown up and kept away from our culture… you do strike me as quite Cardassian. It’s there and cannot be taken from you. I sincerely hope others back home will see this too.” He straightened up a bit, though he was getting a bit drowsy. “Well. This has been a pleasant dinner, truly. I am afraid I might have to retreat now, but I shall be looking forward to another such evening,” he dried his mouth with the napkin one last time and slowly got up.

Melekor got up as well, walking Garak to the door and opening it for him. “Thank you for your company, and I wish you a good night’s sleep.”

He was glad for the many things he’d already managed to learn from the other, and the reassuring words too, even those that surely were exaggerations. Even then, exaggerations from a fellow Cardassian meant more than if they had come from any other person.

Once Garak had left, Melekor cleaned the table, humming to himself. He disposed of the bowls (Garak hadn’t emptied his glass of Kanar, and so Melekor had it for himself), set the chairs back where they had been initially, and retreated into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth, indulged in another sonic shower, and laid his clothes in the laundry. His bedroom was a welcoming cavern, and once he’d curled up under the blankets, he fell asleep rather promptly.

##  * * *

The Promenade’s gymnasium was a pretty nice establishment, which Timun had paid a visit to before, but it held no racquetball court. Still set onto his quest for the famed court, the Vulcan-Trill headed to Quark’s, where everything could hopefully be found. Clad in that tight suit leaving little to imagination in regards to his anatomy, Timun giddied up to the counter. The Ferengi barkeeper looked at him from head to toe, a bit of puzzlement on his face, but a glimmer of interest in the eye. Timun knew that gaze far too well.

“Yes, I’m good at it,” he told the Ferengi. “If you can find me an opponent, you can probably bet on me.”

“We’ve had some bets before,” the barman shrugged as if he weren’t  _ that _ interested, and continued to dry glasses. “I guess it would have been nice for them to last a bit longer. It was a fine event. Even benefited the Bajoran fund for war orphans,” he argued.

“Rule of Acquisition number 144…” Timun muttered, causing the other to roll up his eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t mind being charitable too. I could always use a bit of extra money to afford a gift for someone,” he told.

Quark hmph’d. “Because Odo kept the latinum you extorted from my brother as evidence.”

“Do we really need to talk about this again?” the half-Vulcan frowned. “Rather, give me a glass of veggie juice,” he ordered. The Ferengi winced in disapproval.

“Can’t you order something more… alcoholic? This isn’t the Replimat, it’s Quark’s. It’s a  _ bar _ .”

“I don’t drink alcohol, Quark. Just be happy I order anything at all,” Timun maintained and the Ferengi miserably obliged his client’s poor taste.

“Looking for the racquetball court?” came a cheery voice behind the athlete. Julian approached with a bright smile, although some tiredness still lingered in his eyes as he’d just excused himself from a never-ending conversation with two Denobulan girls (who had given him optimistic hope until they started going over their complicated family relations, which made an already tipsy doctor’s head feel even more messy). “I’m Bashir – Julian Bashir,” he reached out his hand in greeting, observing the half-breed with appreciation. An interesting mix, that one. The Vulcan-Trill shook his hand with energy.

“Timun Lykes,” he introduced himself. “Like ‘tea-moon’ but it’s spelled differently. Lykes is my surname, it’s written with a y,” he specified. “...People tend to think I’m very outgoing about what I like because of…” he started to fumble with the explanation of the explanation. “I’ve heard of a racquetball court somewhere on the station indeed,” he returned to the topic, “but no luck yet in finding it,” he realized he should certainly let go off the other’s hand. “I… tend to need a lot of physical stimulation.” Did he really need to mention that? He wasn’t sure, and diverted his eyes a bit in embarrassment. As they set on his glass of veggie juice, he felt the need to clarify, “I don’t drink alcohol… Vitamins are good. Or so I’ve heard…” He looked up at the man, “I’m sorry, I’m not usually this bad at talking.”

This was probably all a side-effect of lack of exercise.

“Why, I think you’re doing pretty fine,” Julian beamed. “It’s no wonder you didn’t find the court; a friend of mine built it in a spare room in another section of the station. We use it on and off... if you want, I can take you there. Come to think of it, I might even play some rounds myself – if you’re up for the challenge,” he smiled smugly as they walked out the bar – Timun downed his glass to follow the other’s lead toward the Docking ring.

“How long have you played?” asked Julian as they walked to the nearest turbolift.

“Oh, it’s been mostly a hobby but I started when I was fifteen, so that must make… about nineteen years,” he realized and paused as they entered the cabin and Julian set the destination. “Makes me feel old, suddenly,” Timun picked up again and scratched the back of his head, chuckling. “I’ve been playing on and off, though. It vastly depended on whether I liked the club leader or not. And who I could hook up or not,” he added shamelessly. “Racquetball was for the Symbiosis Commission kind of girls, and parkourdunk for the more rebellious ones. Quite horrifying how well that strategy worked,” he admitted. “And you? What are your scores?”

“Well, I made captain of the team at Starfleet Medical Academy; we won the sector championships. A good ending to a good time,” he sighed with nostalgia. “Played against Vulcans, that time, if that give you any hint as to my capabilities,” he smirked and laughed a little. “Funny... the one Trill I know, who is Joined, doesn’t play racquetball; she’d rather wave a bat’leth around. But maybe I should ask her,” he realized, as if a door to a whole new reality had just opened up in front of him.

“A  _ what? _ ” Timun coughed, trying not to laugh at the mental image. “Those Klingon… blade things? Not even my Mok’bara teacher had ever touched one, I think. ...He was a Trill-born Klingon and in a way, more Trillian than Klingon.” Timun stepped out of the turbolift when the doors opened, and went a little bit ahead, just so he could turn back and look at Julian’s body.

“You’re a Terran, right?” he smiled, walking backwards. “Nice body you have. I’m eager to see how you use it, and how good you are. Or if those Vulcans were very sloppy and too stuck-up to run properly!” he teased, laughing as he resumed to tagging alongside the man. “I grew up on Vulcan for ten years only. School felt like some sort of constant torture, ‘ _ repress your emotions, _ ’ ‘ _ stop moving like that, _ ’ ‘ _ stay in your pit, _ ’ and so on,” he shook his head. “I miss it sometimes, though. If I’d been through all of it, maybe it would have been worth it. I’ll never know.” He smiled, though. “You studied on Earth then? Did you like it?” Julian hummed in response.

“Medical School,” he said with a mixture of fondness and something else, “had some great teachers, beautiful nature, not to mention the ladies,” he winked at Timun; “It was great while it lasted –  _ this _ , here, is better, though. I always thought Earth was a little bit mellow. This, however, this station, it’s… my home,” he chuckled. “When I first came here, I made the mistake of telling Major Kira how exotic this ‘wilderness’ was  – she’s a Bajoran,” he specified. “Now I can see how what I said was insensitive and offensive,” he nodded to himself. “Here we are,” he gesticulated towards a door. “And what about you?” he asked, jolting backwards in the conversation, “Are you more Trillian, or more Vulcan?”

“Neither, I hope,” Timun chuckled. “I’m probably searching for myself. That’s why we leave home, right?” he told while Julian opened the door. “To get new experiences, meet new people, expand ourselves,” he mused aloud. He lifted his glasses as they entered the room, and looked at the targets with and without them, and did same with Julian. Then he remembered what Melekor had imagined about him.

“These aren’t glasses to see through clothes,” he told quickly. “I’m impaired and this is actually the first time I get to see the uh, real color of targets. Doesn’t make much of a difference actually, to me they’re just a bit more magenta than… orange, or is it yellow in the red? – I’m colorblind,” he explained.

“Colorblind?” burst Julian with more enthusiasm than was normal for the given topic and situation. “Which end of the spectrum? There are several quick procedures you could go through to amend it – as a matter of fact, I performed surgery on a Bajoran just three days ago; she could only see different shades of orange and red.” There was something odd, though, and he frowned, “Why was it discovered so late? From your mother’s side or your father’s?” Timun laughed a little nervously.

“Ah… you’re really a doctor, aren’t you?” he pointed the obvious enthusiasm with a bit of amusement. From another doctor, it would have been unwelcome, but Julian was quite charming, good-looking, and  _ he played racquetball _ . Those were enough good points to make the Vulcan talkative about his condition.

“Tritanopia,” he pointed at his eyes. “My little brother has it too, but not my little sister. Her favorite color is galaxy purple,” he smiled fondly. “Very specific, I know! I only understood how fascinating it is when I got those glasses, not so long ago. It’s funny because I suggested to my mother to have  _ her _ checked, because her criticizing my color choices made me question that maybe  _ she _ had a problem, you know? Turned out I was the faulty one, although it took some more months and a misunderstanding with a peacekeeper to investigate me,” he laughed. “I should have known. She’s too perfect. I don’t think either of my parents has an issue. My mother didn’t check herself because she feels fine and doesn’t want other children anyway, and my father’s a Joined Trill; he went through all sorts of checkups. Maybe he’s known I must be colorblind all along but never said anything…” he had to wonder. He sighed. “I suppose I wasn’t detected sooner because I thought it was normal, and everybody assumed my color choices were sometimes a bit weird because I’m a half-breed, so… half-weird, really. And I’d always set PADDs to display colors I could see – I did find it a bit weird that I’d have to change the settings all the time, but… Well, I always thought  _ I _ was weird, and really, nobody cared!” he laughed and looked around again, appreciating the space. “So, uhm, Doctor, would you like to share a match against this colorblind half-weird me?” he asked.

Julian had a second of delay in his reaction. He found it difficult to believe no one had cared to the extent that the odd behavior hadn’t been noticed, especially seeing as Timun had grown up on Vulcan, at least at first. Then again, maybe that was why – easy to pin oddities on someone being of mixed heritage, not to mention not all species had the same color spectrum nor eye anatomy. He didn’t voice his opinion, though, smiling instead.

“Absolutely,” he answered positively and started some warm-ups, mimicked by the other.

Muscles stretched and ready to work, Julian fetched a racket from a holder on the wall next to the door and swung it a couple of times to try the weight – there were three different designs – and then went to his spot.

“I’ll let you serve,” he challenged the other. He  _ could _ have gone get special clothes, but to be honest, it was the end of the day, and he was about to wash this set anyway.

“I’ll go easy at first,” Timun grinned as he picked a racket and a ball. “If I have to carry you to the infirmary after, we’ll need to swap clothes,” he joked before stepping into position, and served. Nice and easy, accurate, with a predictable enough trajectory, yet with enough strength that it would call energy and speed from Julian to deliver it back. The Starfleet doctor’s concentration went into the game, and he hit the ball, watching it and listening to it. They were a good match, as the game turned out. There were many times when Timun tricked Julian to ready himself to sprint in the wrong direction, but in the end, it was the half-Vulcan who missed the ball, and Julian got a moment to breathe.

“You’re good,” he congratulated him, shifting the racquet from one hand to the other and back again, then shuddering a bit to ease his blood flow. “So, what are you doing on Deep Space Nine? Going somewhere? Waiting for someone?” Timun took his breath too.

“I wanted to see Cardassians,” he laughed at how silly it sounded. “You know, people. How they function, how they deal with emotions,” he tapped the ball on the ground. “It sounds stupid, I know, but… they’ve done some shit here and there, everybody paints them as those cruel sadists and…” he picked the ball and looked at the doctor with a small smile, “I  _ know _ it’s not just that. There’s more to this culture. Been proven right so far… Watch out!” he suddenly served. That was almost vicious.

To Julian, the serve was just as big a surprise as the topic turning out to be Cardassians, and although he diligently flailed around the court, hitting the ball several times, he finally ended up thinking about Garak, and wondering if Timun had seen him. Once his concentration was on Garak, it was no longer on the game, and before he knew it, Julian had lost the ball.

“Good one,” he appreciated and went to get the ball. “I take it that you’ve found the sole Cardassian aboard already? He’s not exactly hard to find,” he squatted, picked up the ball and walked over back to his spot. “I think he’d be more than willing to elaborate on Cardassia’s actions to you – but you have to buy him dinner first.”

“I wanted to buy him a dress!” Timun admitted with dramatic disappointment as he caught his breath. It was good to have someone who could actually make him run. “I mean, order one from him, not…” he waved his hands and his racket. “I’m sure he’d be dashing in a dress – he told me the same thing actually, when… It was a misunderstanding because of my glasses. And the dress wouldn’t be for me,” he defended himself. “For my little sister’s birthday,” he cut the explanation short because that muddle was getting too long. “I’ve got the lucky privilege to have the other Cardassian on this station for roommate, but he’s not from there. A nice lad still. And!” he shook his head, “He  _ had _ to cut me short and invite the tailor for dinner first. Tonight. Without warning me,” he felt outrage rising. “As a result, Garak saw me topless as I was playing a bit of parkourdunk in the quarters. It was  _ quite _ an awkward situation. I let you imagine how you’d feel in my stead.” He paused. “How would  _ you _ feel, actually?” he dared ask out of genuine curiosity. Julian just burst out in a short but hearty laughter.

“He’s seen his fair share of topless men, I am sure,” he said in a way that he realized sounded awfully wrong. “I mean, he’s a tailor. Sometimes he needs to take measurements of the more intimate kind,” Julian’s cheeks got red and he told himself inwardly that this would all be much easier if he didn’t misinterpret himself so much. “I’ve met him too, your roommate,” he told as he lifted the ball to serve, “he’s a Cardassian, alright. None of them know what’s good for them,” then he served. It would have probably been a more interesting round, if his mind didn’t keep returning to Garak. Garak having dinner with someone else; a Cardassian no less. Wasn’t what Garak had wanted all this time? Wasn’t what he pretended that Julian were? To save his own sanity, hadn’t he turned Julian into a Cardassian in his mind? What use did he have for ‘ _ dear Doctor _ ’ when he had the real thing?

“What happened?” Julian asked suddenly, looking around for the ball, just to realize it’d passed him without him even seeing it. Timun quickly caught the ball, looking at the other with suspicion.

“You were more focused before we started talking,” he pointed. “I must have disturbed you a bit,” he drew the logical conclusion. “And you seem to have a grudge of your own against my roommate,” he added without judgement. “I…” he thinned his eyes a little as an idea passed through his mind. “I think they’re having some kind of affair. Not the romantic sort,” he hurried to correct. “I don’t think Melekor is on that board… though I wouldn’t mind if he were,” he considered thoughtfully. “I know certain things, but if he gets to know I’ve told you  _ anything _ , he’ll be very angry. And he would be right so,” he reckoned. “But it seems like we all have information the other wants, and if we’re going to play it like those Cardassians do, we might end up but just as paranoid as they seem to be,” he suggested.

“Ha,” Julian waved a warning finger to his opponent, “I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work,” he continued, about to serve, then interrupted himself. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from Garak, it is that Cardassians always have affairs. As a doctor, it is my deduction, that they might die from boredom if they didn’t have all these plots to investigate. They are too smart to live in a void of safety,” then he served, a bit more aggressively than he would have wanted.

Had he said those words to confront Timun on his dirty tricks, or to comfort himself? What if Melekor and Garak  _ were _ having an affair of some sort? – well, of course they were. The moment Julian saw the young Cardassian, he knew where it’d end up. Garak probably kept communications between Melekor and the Central Command to try and get him citizenship. But Garak wouldn’t do it because he was nice, he’d do it because it’d net him more favours for his spy activities, right?

Unless he had a weak spot for his fellow Cardassian.

_ Missed again _ . He could almost hear Garak’s voice in his head: “ _ My dear doctor, this is where that lively imagination of yours will get you: to the losing side. _ ”

“So,” he went to fish up the ball again, “What about one more round, and then we call it quits?” he asked, not very inclined to voice any of his concerns to a complete stranger. But, he  _ would _ need to talk to Garak the following day.

“That’s fine on me,” Timun simply said although that tension didn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to induce it exactly, but he knew he’d fucked up again. “I must say, though, that you do have some spark. I could have gone into professional sports, and I wouldn’t have imagined a Starfleet doctor could give me such a challenge,” he tried to smile. Well, he’d at least get bragging rights on his date with Savras.

He let Julian serve and the rally started, somewhat similar to the previous one. Timun nearly missed one or two time though, but his focus proved better again, and he came out the victor.

“Ha…!” he laughed, stretching himself. “It was a very good match, Julian. We should do this again, and forbid the topic of Cardassians next time,” he chuckled. He looked at the other a moment, thinking to himself that sweat fit the doctor quite nicely, and contemplated whether to start hitting on him or not. Maybe not, he figured the moment was too awkward for that.

“A rematch in a couple of days would be welcome, if you’re still here by then?” Julian suggested, starting to put back his racquet and the ball, then wiping his forehead with his arm. “Earlier in the day,” he specified with a smirk, “and no Cardassians,” he agreed, shaking his head a little. Since when was he so obsessed with Garak? Really, he needed to contemplate this a bit further. “You can stay and train here for as long as you’d like, but I’m afraid I have to retreat to my quarters. It’s a day tomorrow as well.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Timun appreciated, putting his racket back as well. “I’ve got a date day after tomorrow, but after that I have no plans,” he bragged and the thought put a wide grin on his face. Little did he know then what chaos his life was about to turn into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving a comment! Copy-pasting welcome as usual~  
> We'd love to know how you feel about the canons and OCs, and the dynamics between them :D


	7. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beside a culture clash between the roommates, Garak has plans to drink his pain away.
> 
> tw: perceived sexual assault

##  Day 6

 

Come the following morning, Melekor almost regretted to have invited Timun to come share breakfast with him at Quark’s. The half-Vulcan was proving to be both blunt and too open-minded, in a combo that had turned mostly unwelcome when he started to talk about sexuality, because he’d come to the conclusion that being shy about the general topic was illogical. However fine for him that was, the rest of the Alpha quadrant didn’t seem to have come to the same conclusion along with him, and Melekor, who wasn’t Betazoid enough to enjoy the subject, had to tell him off just as bluntly that  _ he _ was not interested in sex, neither as a topic nor as an activity. He wasn’t yet entirely sure whether he was thankful or not for the way the conversation had derailed from sex to pon’farr and to Timun explaining that no, he couldn’t go to Vulcan because he’d been  _ exiled _ at age ten.

“And I thought my tenth birthday was bad,” Melekor shook his head while eating his egg pudding.

“I didn’t do anything bad,” Timun still cared to specify, pointing a bit of pizza at the other – he’d ordered the same as Savras had before in case that’d come handy in the discussion on their date and was very content about how mindful he was to have had such a thoughtful idea.

“I’m not sure I can see the  _ logic _ in exiling  _ children _ ,” the Cardassian rasped dryly. “And honestly I’m not sure I want to hear excuses for such utter cruelty.”

“Separating me from my mother would have been more cruel,” Timun argued. “She was the one to commit the uh, ‘crime’. See, Vulcans are all about repressing emotions because if we don’t, we can get quite violent – you know of Romulans? Well, we do share common ancestry, and they don’t repress their emotions like Vulcans do. If you’ve met one, you probably see what I mean. I remember the first one I met, it didn’t take one hour before we started punching each other in the face,” he laughed at the memory. “I won,” he grinned. “And so  _ there  _ comes my mother and her unorthodox decision to try expressing emotions, with the hope to manage a balance through the practice of martial arts to manage anger. As if that weren’t enough, she decided to teach her students. On Vulcan it was viewed as a threat for the entire society, so they exiled the entire group,” he waved his hand as to chase a fly away. “I can’t fault them, considering we used to be a bunch of bloodthirsty idiots constantly waging war upon each other due to poor anger management,” he rolled up his eyes. “We could have gone extinct!”

“Why didn’t your mother give you up to be raised by other Vulcans?” Melekor asked after a while of thinking, “Surely they must have realized that it would be safer for all, if you were separated from your mother – you  _ were _ only ten, you could have still been shaped to fit into Vulcan society.”

“Well, I think you’ve  _ met _ the unpleasant half of the reason?” Timun replied. “It’s one thing to exile someone, it’s another thing to deprive parents from their children, and my father was happy to get back to Trill for the longer term. I’m not sure I would have been happier on Vulcan, being half-Trill and an orphan. Were you happy on Betazed, being half-Cardassian?” he suggested.

“We didn’t stay long on Betazed,” Melekor answered evasively, “I was three when we left Betazed for Earth, where I had my fourth birthday. I think we stayed there for one or two years – we might have lived for some time on a Federal space station, during which time my mother wrote her book on Starfleet Academy,” he paused, as if he learned this for the first time. “I spent a lot of those years in the Academy buildings themselves. Ironic, isn’t it?” He grinned, “Starfleet would never let me join as a cadet; my Cardassian blood makes me a liability.” He took a breath of air through the nose, then continued, “We went back to Betazed, and we stayed there until I was seven, when my mother decided to go to Trill. Which is where I’ve spent most of my memorable years. Well, aside from the ones on Ferenginar,” he shrugged. “Very soggy place. And I missed my friends all along. But to answer your question. I wouldn’t know. Probably not. I usually go back to Betazed during summer, to see my family. They disapprove of... that is to say, they wish I would be at better terms with my own Betazoid side.”

“That’s sad…” Timun let out a small sound of empathy. “All contacts with my mother’s side were cut after the exile. My father’s side on Trill welcomed us quite warmly at first, like one welcomes an exotic creature, flattering themselves over their open-mindedness – poor them, I don’t think they were ready for the turbulent child I was! It’s good they lived in the countryside so I could go running outside, climb rocks, nearly break my arm and all those things, but it didn’t take long before frustration and annoyance took over. And the offense!” he laughed. “My mother, she tells what she thinks,” he just said with a certain fondness. “I know her choice is what had us exiled, that she didn’t realize that me and my little brother, Jabin, are colorblind, and she might have fucked up a bit one or two other things, but she was there. She’s the best mother and I love her.” The childish naivety of those words wasn’t lost on Melekor.

“I love my mother too,” he pointed out, leaning back and taking his glass of milk, in which he cracked the raw egg he’d ordered alongside his pudding, and stirred with the spoon – Timun  _ had _ been wondering what the Cardassian planned to do with that egg. “ _ Still _ , I would never say my mother is  _ the best _ ,” Melekor continued almost coldly, “there are things she’s done that I will never be able to forgive. I understand now, why she wanted me to go into criminology rather than engineering – who wants a half-Cardassian engineer? Not Starfleet, not the Trillian fleet, likely not any Cardassian high ranking vessels either – all for their own separate reasons,” he grinned without pleasure nor joy but for only a second. “Maybe you think your mother is the best, because you haven’t yet realized just  _ how _ badly she might have fucked up.”

“No,” Timun waved his fork at him. “I mean, rebel against your mother if that suits you, but I’m loyal to mine. She’s  _ great _ , and I’d rather you don’t insinuate anything venomous like you did. She’s my  _ mother _ and I don’t take such words kindly,” he warned, glaring dangerously at the other. He took a breath and a bite of pizza, trying to calm down and quickly tried to derail the topic, “How is your pudding? And this thing of blending raw egg with milk, where is it from? Is it good?”

“Would I do it, if it wasn’t good?” the Cardassian snarked back, and realized that decidedly, he was upset about the unprovoked verbal attack he’d just endured. Instead of adding anything further he simply treated himself some of his pudding, which was soft and nice, and sweet – much unlike Timun, then he added, “If you do not want my opinions on how you view your mother, perhaps you shouldn’t bring up the subject?” he sniped again, smiling sweetly, but with an unmistakable hint of intended offense.  _ If _ Timun was going to be angry, Melekor may as well give him a real reason to. The Vulcan gave it a thought before speaking.

“Please, don’t take it personally now, but is it quite necessary that you give your opinion on any mentioned topic? You don’t seem so eager to share your opinion about your own food right now, so why criticize my mother when I do not welcome it?” He gave a gentler smile, as he’d learned helped to resolve conflicts (when it didn’t make them worse).

“It wasn’t your mother I criticized, it was you,” the engineer pointed at Timun with his spoon, “You can’t say someone is  _ the best  _ and then claim you don’t idolize them. That’s not how it works,” he concluded, suckling on his spoon. “Any child who thinks their parent is the best doesn’t really know their parents – I should know,” he added with a smirk, “My father is the best. And I certainly don’t know him.”

“You missed him and you filled the gap with hope,” Timun concluded, waving his pizza at Melekor. “I can understand that. I suppose I have similar hopes concerning my family. We do our best, and so I hope it  _ is _ the best. In a way, the best we can do  _ is _ the best, in its own frame of reference. My mother is the best she can be, and that’s good enough for me. I refuse to question her. She-”  _ saved my life _ , he nearly said, but refrained, afraid Melekor might draw hasty conclusions that wouldn’t be untrue, “-She’s always done everything she could to protect us.”

“Mother instincts,” Melekor identified, hardly impressed by the revelation, “See. I can buy your reasoning, up until the moment when you refuse to question her. Because that’s not healthy,” he sliced his pudding with his spoon, lifting it a bit to better look at it wobble. “If she made a decision that would force you to leave now, and go back to Trill, would you not question her?” he lifted his eyes, “Or even worse; if she made a decision you know could put her in harm’s way, would you not object? As you can see,” he interrupted before there could be an answer, “the inability to question those you love, can just as easily turn into abuse, be it to yourself, or them.” Timun looked at the other, showing a bit of surprise.

“You think I wouldn’t do that? Mel, with due respect, I’m not that illogical. I love her, I think she’s the best, and that’s why I stand by her side, even if that implies confrontation and conflict at times. Conflict too can be an expression of love  _ if _ properly channeled with logic. Is that fine on you?” he asked and tried to slice another bite of pizza.

“So then you in fact  _ don’t  _ refuse to question her?” Melekor was feeling increasingly infuriated with the entire conversation, “I don’t think you know what ‘ _ refuse to question’ _ and ‘ _ the best _ ’ actually mean, seeing how you keep using those words in all the incorrect way,” he slammed the spoon in the table with a little more force than intended. “There’s nothing logical about how you channel your conflicts. First you say something you don’t mean, then you threaten me when I contradict you, and now you’re trying to twist it into me being illogical – don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, you’re trying to manipulate me, to get an outlet for your  _ Vulcan anger issues _ , and I do not appreciate it.” Timun looked at the other with slight disbelief, not understanding why Melekor was being so upset and defensive.

“No,” he just said again. “ _ I _ can question my mother.  _ You _ can’t,” he just smiled sweetly. “Unless I ask your opinion, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone’s opinion about my mother.  _ You _ however do seem to be quite angry. Maybe we could have a bit of training together so you can steam off a bit? How would you feel about a bit of Galeo-Manada wrestling?” he proposed eagerly. “I could teach you some handy self-defense moves. You never know when you’re going to need them…”

“No, thank you,” the other answered in monotone, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let’s make something clear. We are roommates, we are allies, but are not friends. We are not going to  _ become  _ friends. And since it makes you less angry, I’ll stop caring about you at all. All I require in exchange, is that you pick your fights with someone else. I think that’s a good deal, I’d even call it fair.”

“If that’s what you want,” Timun shrugged, opting to agree to avoid furthering any argument. That solved, he went onto another topic, “Now, talking about friends, do you have any idea of a little gift Savras would enjoy? Nothing too big or fancy, it’s only going to be our first date and I don’t want to freak her out. Only to make her smile a little. Like how about a scarf or a little pin?” he considered. “Is there a color she likes?” The laughter that left the Cardassian was an unpleasant, sharp one, after which he leaned forward and put two fingers against the table in a stabbing motion.

“Oh, I know  _ exactly _ what she’d love, but you see, that’s the kind of information I’ll only share with  _ friends _ , and since you’re not one, I guess you’re shit out of luck,” his grin widened. “Why, come to think about it, perhaps I should tell her that you  _ hit on me _ and asked about my privates. I bet she finds  _ that _ a very attractive trait in a potential partner.”

“Oh, come on,” Timun sighed. “What’s the use of being nasty like that? Did I hurt your feelings or something? Looks like you’re trying to make me sad and I’m not sure Savras would want that. She’s your friend, and if you like her, you don’t want to mess her date, uhm? Let her decide if she likes me or not,” he wiped his hands and got up, smoothly passing behind Melekor’s chair. There, he landed his hands on his neck to offer a massage, rubbing the scales a little in complete unawareness of the intimate sensations the touch triggered in the other. “And I’ve already planned telling her I find you quite hot,” he bent forth a bit to whisper amusedly near the other’s ear.

The next second, the chair flied, tumbling away as the Cardassian got up, his hands aiming at the Vulcan’s throat with murderous energy. Timun didn’t get why Melekor got so angry instead of relaxed, but his body was quick to react to the attack. The Cardassian probably didn’t have the time to understand how fast the other caught his wrists, spread them apart with ease, and using the momentum of the attack, kicked him in the belly with his knee. He let go off one arm to twist the other while pushing Melekor against the wall. Before the Cardassian knew, his face was pressed flat against the surface, his shoulder pinned against it as well, and in such an angle that Timun could easily dismantle it or break the man’s shoulder.

“What was that?” the Vulcan asked. “Do you have some weird nerve endings in your neck that make you angry instead of relaxed? I’d rather not send you to the infirmary but I will if I have to!” he told with worry.

“ _ Go ahead _ ,” was all Melekor managed to wheeze out, clawing helplessly at the wall with his free hand. Given the choice and knowing he could take the pain, he figured he’d rather end up with that stupid Bashir doctor, than play the half-Vulcan, half-asshole’s perverted game of manipulation and sexual assault.

“The heck’s wrong with you?” Timun hissed back, eyeing at the stairs. “Quark’s coming –” The Ferengi cleared his throat a bit.

“Gentlemen, please… I don’t know what prompted this-”

“Well, I don’t know either!” Timun shot back. “Does he do this often!?”

“I wouldn’t know!” Quark defended himself. “But I will not tolerate fights in my establishment, so I suggest you both either quiet down or take this elsewhere before I call security.”

“I’m going to let him go, but if he attacks me again, he’ll wind up at the infirmary,” Timun warned before doing as he said. Melekor remained frozen in place a while after Timun had let him go, at which point he turned around – making sure to be as close to the wall as he could, ending up pressing his back against it. His hair was in disorder, and he tried to get it out of his face, but his hands and arms were shaking too much for the effort, so he hugged himself instead, looking at Quark and ignoring the other.

“Quark. You know the thing we spoke about?” he said weakly, he had issues keeping his voice steady, “I’d like you to get it as quick as possible. If that’s all,” he swallowed, his throat hurt, “I’d like to leave now.”

“Sure… I’m working on it…” Quark nodded slowly. “You’re going to be alright?”

“I think we should go to the infirmary,” Timun insisted. “Something’s up with you; you haven’t been normal since the other night… I’m sorry if I did something to piss you off like this, I really… really apologize…” he took a step closer – Melekor pressed himself even flatter against the wall, then snaked to the side and out behind Quark.

“Go flush yourself out an airlock,” was all he managed to throw at the Vulcan-Trill, before hurrying away and down the stairs.

Of course, he wasn’t sure where to go. He certainly didn’t want to go to Timun’s quarters and get himself cornered there. For a wild moment, he seriously considered letting Odo lock him up, but then he considered that the Constable might find him to be a literal waste of space. After a while, he decided to leave the Promenade, and just amble away in the corridors, hiding there. It turned out to be an excellent choice, since they were pretty much abandoned. Once he felt like he’d walked long enough, he slumped against a wall and hugged his knees to his chest, leaning his chin against his knees and closing his eyes, trying not to think about what had just happened.

 

##  * * *

It took some time for Timun to dare enter the infirmary. He’d tried talking with Quark in hope the Ferengi could explain him what happened, but Quark wasn’t of any help. He’d returned to the quarters where he found no trace of the Cardassian, then wandered on the Promenade and wondered what to do. Passing by Garak’s shop, he thought to inquire about the tailor’s opinion but found the shop to be closed unusually early. As such, Julian Bashir appeared to be the last resort and Timun asked after him to the first nurse he could catch.

“I have some health concerns about a Cardassian inhabiting this station…” he explained. She nodded, left and it didn’t take a minute for her to come back and take him to the Chief Medical Officer, seated by the computer.

“It’s about Garak, isn’t it?” Julian presumed.

“Uh, no… Or maybe yes, I’m not sure,” Timun answered as he came in, glancing around at all the equipments. He felt like an idiot for coming with such a small problem. Then again, it could be more dire than he thought. “Hi Julian,” he quickly inserted greetings. “It’s about my Cardassian roommate, Melekor. He’s been weird since this morning,” he told and started to explain what had happened. “I’m a little bit worried, and I’m really sorry if it sounds like something really… really unimportant… but I’m afraid I literally pinched a nerve ending, and that it could have bad repercussions if he has a medical condition…”

“Well, knowing how hot Cardassian tempers tend to be, he probably just had a bad day,” Julian frowned, “As for Cardassian physique, I’m afraid I don’t know much about it – the Cardassians made sure to wipe all the data from the databases before they left, and Garak has been silent as a clam whenever I attempted to take it up with him. However,” he wasn’t about to close the chapter entirely; the topic was too fascinating for that, “what I  _ do _ know from examining Garak the few times he’s been in here, is that Cardassians seem to have a fine network of blood vessels in their neck, which is likely why they’ve developed and kept their scales in this area,” he smiled. “They also seem to have an excessive amount of nerve endings there – for what purpose I’m not sure, but my guesstimate is that they likely use these to adjust their body temperature, perceive vibrations in the air like a cat’s whiskers, or simply to navigate the magnetic field. I think it’s safe to say it’s a sensitive area. But, unless you tried to give him the Vulcan neck grip, I doubt you did any physical damage; those scales do offer protection.” It seemed as though he was about to be silent, when he added, “But if your friend shows up, I’ll be sure to take care for him as best I can. And I do appreciate you telling me.” Timun thanked him, slightly reassured.

“I’ll leave it at that until I find him then. Come to think of it, he was pretty hungover yesterday, so it might be just a bad day indeed…” he considered. “Got to wonder if that’s why Garak closed his shop earlier than usual,” he mused. Julian however knew Garak wouldn’t simply close up shop, not for something he could very easy treat himself against. Hangovers supposedly didn’t last so long, and Julian was pretty sure it wasn’t something that could defeat  _ Garak _ , whether he was plain, simple or neither.

“I’m sorry, did you say Garak’s closed his shop?” he asked to make sure he’d heard right.

“I did,” Timun confirmed with more serious. “I wanted to stop by there on my way here and was quite surprised to find it closed. I looked if there was any notice to explain why, but found none. I don’t know if he was inside or not however. Could be that he had to receive a delivery or something, but that still left me some sort of odd feeling.” He looked down nervously. “Probably just me seeing too much in this.”

“Yeah, probably,” mumbled Julian, though he followed it up with a “ _ not _ ” in his mind. “Ah, thank you anyway. For telling me, and for the match the other night. I believe I’ve gotten used to playing against no one but Miles…”

“We’ll see how that rematch goes, then!” Timun paid him a more cheerful goodbye. He opted  _ not  _ to try and find Melekor yet however – in all due logic, the man  _ would _ have to return to their quarters at some point, to sleep if not anything else – and thus did the Vulcan-Trill decide to explore the Promenade’s shops in hope to find an idea of gift for Savras.

##  * * *

Meanwhile, the station’s Cardassian resident number one had made an apparition at Quark’s. He took a seat at the counter, holding his head while waiting for the Ferengi to come take his order.

“Is it going to be a Cardassian day now?” Quark muttered to himself as he neared his unusual customer. “What will it be for you, Garak?” The tailor glanced at him before closing his eyes tight again. He slid a paper to the other.

“I strongly advise you to eat that once you’ll have the order passed,” he groaned. Quark took the paper to read the scribble on it.

“And what’s that?”

“The requisition code I told you about, Quark,” Garak articulated. “Get me the item as fast as possible. And for now, a bottle of Kanar.”

“You don’t look so good…” the Ferengi commented. The tailor chuckled.

“Thank you for your opinion. Now if you’re done with the compliments, pass on the bottle. I have a headache, and that blue sweetness is the only medicine I intend to take for it.”

“As you wish, but don’t make a mess of yourself,” Quark set a bottle and a glass in front of the other. “I know just how hard you’ve worked to make a reputation for yourself… Alcoholism doesn’t exactly attract pity,” he filled the glass. Garak nodded and took it.

“When I’ll need your advice, I’ll ask for it. Cheers,” he toasted and downed the glass. Quark looked at him with wide eyes that got even wider as the Cardassian took the bottle again.

“Are you certain-”

“Don’t you have other customers to tend to?” Garak glared at him.

The Ferengi shuffled on place then moved away with a “tsk!” of exasperation. The first bottle did seem to make the tailor a bit clearer in his mind. As the second neared its end however, the bartender started to worry. Suicide by alcohol wasn’t unheard of at all, and he was really starting to suspect that the Cardassian had some plan to end his life.

“Not in my  _ bar _ ,” the Ferengi grumbled to himself. “The nerve, when he’s setting me on a deal… What in the Vault is he trying to do?” he wondered while dialing the contact code for the infirmary.

“Quark to Bashir,” he croaked, somewhat displeased to have to come to this. “Doctor,” he addressed him as the other answered, quite instantly so, “I need you in my bar, right away.”

There was no answer, but he heard enough of a shuffling sound to conclude that the man was coming and probably already figured  _ who _ he might be coming for since he didn’t require more details – Bashir was smart and observant, especially around Garak, Quark had noticed. In the waiting of the doctor’s arrival, the barman got back closer to Garak to keep an eye on him.

“Ah, Quark, another one,” the Cardassian ordered.

“I don’t think that’s wise…”

“I  _ think _ that  _ I _ know what is wise or not much  _ better _ than you do,” Garak waved his bottle at him. The Ferengi sighed.

“Fine,” he decided not to oppose, setting a third bottle next to the empty first one, waiting for the doctor to show up – and he didn’t have to wait for a very long time. Explaining the situation didn’t take long either as the sight nearly spoke for itself. Julian had never seen Garak in such a state – in fact, he hadn’t even been able to imagine the quite proper and well-kept Cardassian in such a state.

“Garak,” he announced himself so not to spook his friend, sidling up beside him.

“Oh, doctor!” Garak realized his appearance amidst the haze. “What a ...pleasant surprise,” he tried to find his words in an adequate manner, filling a bit rigid in the brain. Or maybe too mushy. In anyway, maintaining the illusion that he was still perfectly clear and lucid wasn’t going to be so easy. “I apologize for my outburst at lunch,” he apologized for their last encounter, “But I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he told more calmly, and he was very satisfied with how proper he certainly appeared to be. “Please,” he gestured at the bar with a rather stiff arm, “Join me.” That said, he pivoted – or rotated the entire room maybe – until what he could see involved enough Julian and enough bottles.

“I think I will! May I?” the doctor had a seat and pointed at the bottle.

“By all means,” the Cardassian approved politely, only to glare at the bartender in paranoid distrust – “ _ WHAT _ are you doing?” he roared as the little man just tried to grab the bottle for service.

“ _ I _ think it’s a little noisy in here,” Julian grabbed the bottle instead, not meeting the same defense. “I prefer to drink somewhere  _ quiet _ ,” he suggested.

“Quiet? Excellent idea,” Garak approved. As far as they could get from the Ferengi and his blasphemous attempts to get the bottle back for himself. He paid him a suspicious glance and made sure Julian did hold the bottle as he corked it, “We’ll go to my quarters,” he decided would be the only place of the station where no one should interrupt the furthering of his inebriation. Then he could pour Kel out of the bottle and everything would be fine.

“Whatever you want,” agreed Julian, starting to guide the drunken tailor out of the room, “But first, I must make a stop the infirmary,” he continued, hiding the bottle behind his back as he smiled innocently at the Cardassian, ready to avoid him if he’d try to steal it back.

“The infirmary? Certainly,” Garak nodded, then chuckled, “... _ not _ . My dear Doctor… what kind of fool do you take me for?” He should have seen it coming, but still felt betrayed. Whether he felt so toward himself or Julian the most was a question he’d leave unanswered. “Now, give me back my bottle,” he snapped, to which Julian tried to oppose. The Cardassian didn’t even realize that Quark had taken this opportunity to get the bottle back.

“I will-” Julian promised, “-in the infirmary. You are in no state to drink any more of this, it  _ could _ kill you.”

“I’m not going to the infirmary!” the Cardassian threw his friend and angry stare. His vision was darkening on one side, and he had no idea why. His own voice sounded distant too, and it did puzzle him as he spoke, “And I  _ refuse _ to play this… ridiculous game!” he insisted to maintain his terms. He was starting to tick, winking and blinking in a way he didn’t exactly control. He needed more Kanar. Clearly, he needed more and he needed it now. His throat felt dry like a desert, lights were flashing. He felt the world starting to spin again and tried to get the bottle, but his hand went up toward Julian’s shoulder instead.

“Now give me-! Give-” he stuttered like a broken record. The words kept stuck in his brain and in his throat, and a flicker of panic shone through his eyes as he found himself unable to move. “Giv-” he attempted to say something else, but repeated the same syllable instead. A firework of pain exploded in his head and everything tipped over before he could understand what was going on. He fell but didn’t even feel any pain. Everything was soft and just as mushy as his brain. He wasn’t sure whether his body still existed or not, or if it was still his, as he could somehow see himself from the outside. Julian was leaning over him with his beeping- “ _ Make it stop… _ ” Garak managed to utter as a veil of darkness fell over all of his senses.

 

Professionalism had taken over where Julian’s emotions threatened to overshine his judgement, and pure doctor’s instinct had driven him to call on OPs to transport him and Garak to the infirmary. There, the flow of time stood still, and everything except his own thoughts was silent. It was a good thing that time stood still, because when it did, Julian became faster in relation to the real world time. Thought faster, moved faster, spoke faster (which sometimes wasn’t so helpful for others).

He moved like an expert, like he’d never done anything but tend to Garak. Stripped him of his clothes to examine him better, dressed him in more helpful clothes. Scanned. Examined. Puzzled over his findings. Puzzled over Garak’s stubbornness, which was currently what was killing him. Puzzled over each breath to leave him, ticking along with the seconds that passed.

It was a distant but intimate symbiosis, the one Bashir shared with his medical equipment, with the computer panels around him. Like they were an extension of his mind, his capabilities. A perfect piece with a perfect seam, streams of data crossing between them like electricity between the left and right brain halves.

And then came Odo, and the moment the shapeshifter touched him, the speed of normal time overtook his mind and he had to shake his head in order to get back into himself. The doctor was hopeful that, given his years of work with the Cardassians (and those scientists, he hoped to hint but didn’t dare to phrase so offensively), the Constable might have an idea of what that implant the scanner had detected in Garak’s brain could be, but as Odo duly remarked, he’d never bothered to look inside their skulls.

“Do you think this is the cause of Garak’s condition?” he unfolded his arms and came over to take a closer look.

“It’s possible,” Julian reckoned, going over the medical details, the bottom line being “it’s connected to his entire nervous system.” Odo suggested it might be some sort of punishment device left there as a parting gift, but Julian was firm that couldn’t be the case.

“It’s been in there for years, and as far as I can tell, Garak’s only been in pain for the last few days,” he pointed.

“Interesting,” Odo nodded. “I wish I had an answer for you, doctor,” he almost walked out, at which Julian had to interrupt him.

“Well, I wish you could help me get one,” he said casually, because he knew what he’d say next would catch the shapeshifter’s attention. “I think  _ Quark _ knows what this thing is.” Score. “I overheard them talking the other night,” he explained as Odo inquired, quickly summing up what he’d gathered: that Garak was trying to purchase something and was quite desperate about it. And that Quark wouldn’t talk of it more than Garak would, of course. The doctor brightened up a little inside as Odo revealed that the Ferengi had been sending coded messages to Cardassia Prime during the previous days – Julian called it! His Cardassian spy  _ was _ trying to acquire some kind of medication. From that point, his mind split in two, one half talking to Odo, the other half trying to estimate how badly Garak’s condition was deteriorating and whether or not his delivery might arrive in time –  _ if _ Quark could provide it.

The shapeshifter’s methods of investigations weren’t exactly something Julian Bashir of Starfleet would approve of, but Garak’s dear doctor had to admit the tailor hadn’t left him with much of a choice. And either way, Odo  _ was _ going to monitor Quark’s dealings whether Julian came along or not.

“Then meet me in Security at 0200 hours,” the Constable invited him. “Quark always makes his clandestine calls after the bar closes.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Julian answered, even though a part of him desperately needed to stay with Garak.

It wasn’t until Odo had left and Julian’s gaze focused on the bed in front of him that a feeling of dread dawned on him. He’d lived through a number of dangerous situations through the last two years, and he’d had to deal with stressful, challenging medical ordeals, yes. He’d even nearly lost Miles to the Harvesters barely half a year ago. But back then, even as the doctor had to strive helplessly without any medical tool at his disposal, it’d been the two of them facing death. Back then, Julian knew exactly what he was up against. Now? He had no idea. He stood there, in his infirmary, surrounded by all the medical equipments he may ever need, but more clueless than ever. To see Garak like that, vulnerable, most likely dying, and to be powerless, to know that if his tailor died it wouldn’t be because of a nasty biomechanical gene disruptor nor armed conflict, but simply because  _ he _ , Doctor Julian Bashir, would have failed him… No, that was too frightening, and so the doctor chased off the feeling by diving deeper into his attempts to save Garak’s life.


	8. Day 7 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The triptacederine is there. With Garak's deteriorating condition, could it be the end of more than the deal between him and Melekor? At least, the young hybrid will get answers to his quesions...

##  Day 7

 

Around 0130, the bar was mostly deserted, nearing closing hour, and Quark couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly be so wrong with Garak. He did hear him muttering to the doctor after he’d collapsed. “ _ Make it stop, make it stop… _ ” the Ferengi repeated to himself. Now he was about sure that the Cardassian didn’t plan to kill himself as much as he planned to alleviate the pain caused by whatever it was that required that piece of biomedical equipment he wanted. Did seem like a life-threatening condition… Quark could understand why the Cardassian would throw away all of his latinum in the deal, and that did make him wonder just how much latinum the tailor exactly had.

“Sounded like a huge lot…” he mused quite dreamily. If only  _ he _ could get his hands on it…

A movement on the left side of his vision got Quark out of his revery and he noticed Melekor was standing next to the counter.

“Your friend was looking for you earlier,” he said as he neared the Cardassian. “Told me to tell you he’d be waiting for you at your quarters. And by the way,” he lowered his voice, “I got something for you. But first...” he put a PADD on the counter and pushed it forward the other. Melekor pressed his thumb on it a bit longer than necessary.

“Can I have a bowl of warm soup of whatever-it-is, please?” he asked in a pathetically weak voice, “I’m starving, and I think I might be freezing to death, too.” He tried not to think about that sexual offender of a Vulcan he had for roommate, because he was fairly sure that would keep him from drinking his soup.

“Sure,” Quark moved to the replicator and quickly came back with the bowl. “Say, do you’ve got any idea what condition Garak might be suffering from?” he asked. “That headache, it’s not anything casual, right?” He thought he might as well fish for all the information he could. It wasn’t like that couldn’t help even Garak in the end… Maybe even Bashir would pay for that. Melekor warmed his hands on the bowl and offered Quark an apologetic smile.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you on that one, Quark,” he tipped the bowl a little and sipped from it, closing his eyelids with a delighted sigh. Perhaps this meant he could feel a little less light-headed soon, “he’s as tight-lipped as you would expect – I don’t blame him. He values his privacy, as do I.”

“If he values his life, he should talk,” the Ferengi shook his head. “Rule of Acquisition number 125:  _ you can’t make a deal if you’re dead. _ That’s why I never got into selling weapons…” he added for himself. “But I do find it offensive this way he has to start deals without even having the certainty that he’ll still be alive when payment time comes,” he sighed.

“Wait, what makes you say that?” Melekor asked, suddenly slightly more awake, “Why do you think he’ll die?” he continued with thinning eyes.

“He went here earlier and started to down my stock of Kanar. Time for me to call Bashir, he’d emptied  _ two _ entire bottles of blue – I know you Cardassians can ingest large deals of alcohol, but I’d never seen that,” he told with concern. “The doctor tried to take him to the infirmary, but he refused to follow and ended up getting some kind of seizure and fell flat on the floor,” he gestured as to where it happened. “Bashir got him beamed at the infirmary right away and I believe he’s still in there.” He leaned down to grab a box and put it next to Melekor. “Our tailor might need this, but I can predict that the doctor may get curious about it.”

“Well, piss,” muttered Melekor. He downed the rest of his bowl and put it aside, grabbing the package instead, “Sorry,” he added to excuse himself from swearing, then adding with a grunt, “I’ll just have to find a seat somewhere on the Promenade and stare at the infirmary until the doctor leaves. As if I hadn’t been sitting enough for one day. Ah, Quark…” he hesitated, then put the package back on the counter and leaned closer, “You don’t happen to have any free quarters? Aside from the ones I’m staying in.”

“Sorry, Melekor, you’ll have to make do with the boy. If you don’t like him, you should tell him yourself, not me,” the Ferengi pointed. “Plus, he does seem to quite like you. If that’s what’s bothering you, be honest about it, I don’t know,” he shrugged and took the bowl back to the replicator. He of course omitted to mention that Timun paid him to say that – that boy sure knew how to talk with a Ferengi. There were many things Melekor wanted to reply against that, none of them to Quark, however.

“You have a good evening, Quark,” he simply said instead, sending the Ferengi a smile. He did have a soft spot for Quark, really; he reminded him a little bit of his fake-dad – which reminded him that the Ferengi’s birthday was coming up, and he’d have to start picking out a card and gift to send him.

Musing on what he could buy for him, Melekor set to walk around the Promenade a couple of times, then had a seat on a sofa conveniently close to the infirmary. He considered getting something from the Replimat, just to have something to do, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to wait awfully long – Bashir left the infirmary, along with most of the nurses, and Melekor could slip in, pretty much unseen. He must have caught a rare between-shifts moment, and felt quite smug about himself when he snuck inside.

That Garak was unconscious was a bit disappointing, but Melekor figured it might be the pain, so he carefully opened the box, stole one of the hyposprays, armed it with one of the capsules from the box, and pressed the little device against Garak’s neck, administering the dosage. Then he waited, box in one hand and hypospray in the other, dearly hoping that he wouldn’t have accidentally killed him because he wasn’t sure how he’d explain that, really. Thankfully, the tailor started to move a bit, twitching and trying to open his eyes.

Even as he was emerging from sleep, it took a moment for Garak to order his thoughts sufficiently enough to regain a minimum of lucidity. The sound of the hypospray had recalled him a bit more to reality, but only after he’d processed what he heard did he feel the touch, as if the timeline of his senses was somehow distorted. He blinked, blinded by light, and first saw Bashir and the ceiling of Quark’s above them. Another blink and he saw Melekor’s face. They were in the infirmary, and Garak was not understanding why he was seeing the Cardassian instead of the doctor. Confusion washed on his face. This didn’t make any sense.

“Oh, good,” Melekor’s shoulder slumped in relief, and he managed a small smile toward Garak, “I thought you might want to know; your triptacederine arrived,” he lifted the box a little, “Don’t worry, the doctor isn’t here. In fact, no one is; it’s a little weird they’d leave the infirmary unprotected,” it was actually a bit disquieting.  But at least, it was starting to make enough sense for Garak to function.

“Oh, good,” he echoed and sat up. He made a face of horror at the sight of the clothes he’d been dressed up with. “They really had to put this abomination on me,” he fumed tiredly as he got up and tried to figure how to take the medical clothes off. “Can you find my clothes, yes?” He’d sooner go out naked than wearing this purple insult to his profession. Well, maybe not naked if it could be avoided, but this treatment was really quite outrageous and humiliating. How even did he get in here? What happened at Quark’s? The situation was a fair bit disquieting and he welcomed his clothes as the other brought them.

Melekor had diverted his gaze and the tailor was distantly thankful for the other’s respect of his intimacy. Being seen naked somehow felt less indignant than being seen in the ridiculous medical robes; at least, his body was his, and it was Cardassian. Getting dressed however was a little tedious – his movements were a bit erratic, and his balance not the best yet, but he managed, eventually. That done, he grabbed the box of medicine and the hypospray, and tried to move toward the door. He was still dizzy though, and realized it was going to be difficult to make his way to his quarters.

“Kel…” he whispered. “I might need your help to walk out of here…” he admitted. “I just need a little more time for the medicine to…” he couldn’t even find the rest of his sentence – Melekor hurried up to Garak’s left side and laid an arm around him to support him, and let him lay his arm over his shoulders.

“There. Let’s go.”

He was used to doing this, although the people he usually did it for were way older than Garak – Savras’ grandmother, and his own grandmothers too, Teara and Gwyndolyn; both of them were quite in love with him, probably because they were calmer and Melekor was drawn to their calm, and so because he had been doting them, they spoiled him back. A very well functioning dynamic, all and all.

Steadying Garak, however, was something else. The closeness, Garak’s  _ scent _ which, yes, he had a scent, and it was unlike any other body odour Melekor had ever smelled before – because Garak smelled unusually good. The weight of his body, their similar body temperatures... Melekor had to take a deep breath to interrupt his own rampant thoughts. This was not the time, not the place, and absolutely not the right target – Garak was way out of his league, and he only felt this attraction because it was the first Cardassian he’d ever met. He was sure he’d get over it. There. Good.

“I was wondering if you’d mind if I stayed in your quarters for half an hour or so?” Melekor asked as they entered the closest turbolift. “It’s... I’m not going to get you drunk or anything again,” he hastened to add, “It’s just that I want to wait with going to mine until I’m certain my roommate is sleeping. I don’t want to meet him right now.”

“Certainly…” Garak didn’t oppose. “I think I’ve had my share of alcohol for today. The Jul-” he realized he was about to pronounce the doctor’s name and caught himself. “The doctor must have washed it out of my blood, but I’d rather keep sober for quite some months now,” he wheezed. It hurt a little and he squeezed Melekor’s shoulder a bit. He could feel the scales through the fabric and tried not to give into the temptation to indulge in the touch. He knew far too well just what kind of stimulation it could induce if the young man happened to be sensitive on this spot, and how could he justify this behavior? He smelled good though. He smelled like a Cardassian, felt like a Cardassian, was undeniably a Cardassian…

By the time they reached his quarters, it seemed like both their temperatures had increased, but he made sure not to mention anything about it. “I hope you forgive the starkness of my quarters,” he told as he let the two of them inside. He felt insanely ashamed about it in this moment, probably much more so than he should be. “Feel free to use the replicator…”

“Thank you,” Melekor murmured and went over to the replicator, ordering some tea for himself, “Would you like something to drink yourself?” He asked over his shoulder.

“Tarkalean tea, extra sweet,” Garak answered as he landed himself on his bed. “Thank you,” he added. “Hopefully this will be over soon… I’m sorry for your trouble,” he let Melekor bring him his cup of tea and sit by his side, ready to listen. In one way or the other, it would be over soon… One of the two possibilities was preferable to the other still.

“I guess I owe you my part of the deal,” he cleared his voice a bit. “Your father,” he looked up at the other, “is named Nall Rokat. He is a Conservator, and a talented one at that. I thought I’d arrange for us to watch his next trial together, but…” he gave a weak smile, “We’ll have to see if I get in better shape in time.” To avoid letting Melekor hook up on that sinister bit he quickly went on while fumbling to put another capsule in the hypospray. “Your father is a kind man, nice, pleasant, very professional, very Cardassian although some would say that he’s too  _ soft _ … Yet… I’m afraid he will likely not be pleased to know he had a child, and that this child was hidden away and deprived of all chances to receive proper scholarship and enter an Institute of Higher Education like the Sidjartan Institute of Law. Social status on Cardassia isn’t granted by birth. It is earned by hard work… You may meet your father, you may get to know him, he may even get to know you… But if I were you, I wouldn’t stir hopes of being officially acknowledged as his son,” he bit his lips. He took a breath and got himself another dose of the medicine.

So. A Conservator? Melekor wasn’t sure what it was, but figured, it had to be like a judge or lawyer of sorts. So that’s why his mother wanted him to get into criminology... he sighed, looking into his tea leaves, swirling on black waves. He smiled though, at the prospect of meeting his father – that was all he’d wanted from the beginning. Nothing had changed, in that regard.

“If you think he would not be opposed to meeting me, then that’s already more than enough for me,” he admitted in a bittersweet voice. He couldn’t for the life of himself figure out why he was sad when he should be happy. Sad and perhaps a bit angry; it was hard to tell, the feelings were located in his chest, and he usually had difficulties categorizing those. “When I first decided to go against my mother’s wishes, I was worried he might already be dead,” he lifted his head and looked at Garak. “I lost a very close friend in the Battle of Wolf 359. Personal loss does give you an entirely different view on death, doesn’t it?” he continued, lifting his cup to heat his face with the steam, “I didn’t only realize fully  _ I’m _ going to die one day, I also realized that everyone around me would. Including him. That realization just about crushed me,” he winced a little and shrunk on himself. “Does he have any family?” he continued to ask, “I mean, official family.”

“He does,” Garak confirmed. “But do you really want to know? And why? It’s not just curiosity, isn’t it? Not anymore… You want to know if you’re up against something, someone…” he made a guess.

“No,” in despite of himself, Melekor smiled, “all this time, my greatest fear was that he might be as lonely as myself,” he tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth, then sipped some tea instead. He still couldn’t understand why he was upset and on the verge of tears, and it was actually starting to make him angry at himself. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

How different things could have been, if his mother had not done what she did.

And that’s when he realized it was her. He was angry at her. And sad for himself – quite pathetic, but true nonetheless.

“Mister Garak,” he tried to phrase his question without starting to cry, because it was a very unpleasant feeling, crying, and he avoided it most of the time. But this day really had taken its toll on him. “Do you have any idea how it feels, to be gifted, to have talent… but be brushed off by every place where you could make a difference?” he held the cup so hard that his knuckles whitened. “ _ Seven years _ I’ve been slaving away in cramped, primitive engine rooms, transporting unimportant people to unimportant places, watching from a distance how  _ everyone _ I went to school with are reaching top positions – in Starfleet, in the Trillian fleet... all of those blithering idiots who are no better than I-” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry,” he admitted genuinely, “you have a headache, I should…”

A heavy sigh. “You are right,” Garak put a hand on his shoulder. Again, he fought the temptation to touch the scales further. The situation was embarrassing enough with Melekor on the edge of tears and himself on the verge of death… “I know ...exactly how it feels. I-” he wanted to say it, to just let off the steam, but he grit his teeth instead. “I hope…” he told more carefully, “that you will get your visum approved, and that you will meet your father. After all… you are still quite young and if you do have talents, you will show them.You will do what it takes to have them acknowledged. And you will succeed,” he held him with both hands now, having discarded the cup on his bed. Whether he held him or held to him, he wasn’t entirely sure. He stared into his eyes as to promise him he was right, for he wanted to be right about this. When he realized his fingers had started to writhe and rub at the texture underneath the fabric anyway, he removed his hands and set them on his laps instead. The other had reacted to the touch and that wasn’t good. “You should go,” he said hastily. “My absence will not go unseen and I expect Doctor Bashir will seek me on his own. I would like to spare you the trouble of him finding you here…”

“Thank you,” Melekor exhaled and felt that his voice had gone dry and a bit gnarly. “I... hope you are right,” he smiled, and while it was a genuine smile, it had a spark of warmth to it that wasn’t related to the enthusing speech Garak had just given. He got up from the bed, then looked down at Garak with concern. “I hope you’ll be fine,” he told him, then reached out his left hand, giving Garak’s hand a subtle, light caress, “I’d miss you, if you disappeared,” he told him with a kind of fondness he wasn’t sure he’d experienced toward anyone before. But he really should leave. Garak was in pain and probably wanted to be left alone more than anything, after all. So why was it so difficult to do just that? Then Garak smiled, laying his other hand on top of Melekor’s. He closed his eyes for a second, indulging in the contact.

“Thank you, Kel… If all goes fine, we shall have this dinner together,” he raised his eyes up to him. “Until then… I hope things go fine for you as well. Have a good night.” He let go off his hand. It was nice to have had a Cardassian to speak to, one who didn’t hate him. Hopefully, Julian would be a nice sight too, though he would surely be infuriating in his need to fix everything, especially that which could not be fixed.

And so Melekor left. But even as he left, he felt like he should have stayed. There was something about leaving Garak all alone with his grave condition that just felt wrong, as if he had an obligation of some sort to stay there, either until the other recovered, or until he died. He could only assume it must have to do with some sort of Cardassian instinct, the same that had driven him in his strife to find his father so far.

The closer he got to his own quarters, the more he felt like he should’ve stayed with Garak. As if he was walking towards a place where he knew he wouldn’t be safe. He stopped outside of the doors, then spent a painstaking eternity convincing himself to push the button and step inside.

##  * * *

The Cardassian had fumbled to press yet another capsule of triptacederine in the hypospray and had only just managed to shoot himself once more when Julian came in.

“Ah, Doctor… what a pleasant surprise,” he exhaled,  not actually sounding surprised at all – that was how far he could pull his act. Not so far, really, but that didn’t matter. “I’m sorry, I must have missed the door chime,” he still cared to phrase himself as elegantly as possible.

Julian’s eyes went from Garak’s eyes, to his hand, to the hypospray, to the box he’d gotten the capsule from. Then he hurried over and snatched the hypospray from him, eyes widening.

“ _ Triptacederine? _ How much of this did you take!?”

“Oh, a mere thirty cc,” the tailor croaked. “It’s not nearly enough, I’m afraid.”

“Thirty cc would anesthetize an Algorian Mammoth,” Julian stared at Garak with utter shock. How was he still standing? Or, alive at all, for that matter, the doctor wondered while hurrying to put his entire self between Garak and the rest of the doses.

“We Cardassians must be made of sterner stuff,” Garak turned around, “I barely feel it,” he told more honestly, though it might have sounded almost like a provocation. Julian was upset, it was easy to tell, and in a way, Garak welcomed the attentionate feeling. He was quite handsome, the doctor, when his dark eyes gleamed with such determination. Were things to turn sour, the Cardassian thought this image would be a nice one to die to. Hopefully, death could still be avoided though. He quite wished to see more of his dear doctor. And many other things, starting with Cardassia, following closely with Palandine and Pythas, Enabran and Mila. But for now, Julian was there, and he had Garak’s attention.

“Listen to me, Garak,” Julian puffed out his chest, staring darkly at his friend, “I’ve had just about enough of your nonsense. Now, you’re coming back to the infirmary with me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Garak stepped forth toward confrontation, grave and decided. “Believe me when I tell you: there’s nothing you can do for me,” he smiled, slightly nervous. In truth, he was starting to realize he was no longer sure he could do anything for his own self either. He was all too conscious that his condition was degrading fast, faster even than he expected it might, and what he had to perform was going to be extremely delicate and complicated.

“Oh, and Quark  _ can _ , is that it?” the doctor threw the accusation.

“I thought  _ I _ was to be the spy,” Garak blurted out before even thinking.

“Quark’s not coming, Garak,” Julian punctuated the air with each letter. He wasn’t sure what his words would trigger in the Cardassian, but was prepared for anything from confusion to fear to aggression.

“How do you know?” the Cardassian tensed, feeling his breath turn raspy and short.

“I heard him talking to his Cardassian contact,” Julian revealed easily. “He couldn’t get the item you requested.”

“Really?” Garak took a breath, trying to let it all sink. “That’s… most distressing. But, I suppose, not all that surprising.” As he was suddenly forced to consider his own death as something more likely inevitable within a near future, and the agony that would come along with it if he tried to stay awake all through his final hours, his head started to ring again beyond the numbness his medicine provided. The implant was acting up as an echo chamber of pain again. Holding a hand to his face in a futile hope to alleviate his suffering and to provide himself with more focus and balance, Garak moved toward the nightstand, to get another capsule, while trying to calm down.

“Oh, well,” he tried to relativise it all, to accept it all, however unacceptable everything was, “Maybe it’s for the best. My ...hypospray, if you please?” he required while trying to pick an appropriate dosing.

“Another dose might kill you,” the doctor argued, trying to be appeasing although he did not feel like being calm himself.

“Thank you for you concern, Doctor, but I’d rather have the hypospray,” Garak discarded the advice. Keeping his focus on anything but the pain was taking tremendous effort. He could feel as if something was about to break inside his brain, and the loss of control over what was going on inside his body terrified him, no matter how much he tried to conceal the feeling.

“I’m not gonna let you commit suicide! I’m here to help you,” Julian held his position in a way that was getting to be infuriating to Garak.

“I doubt you  _ can! _ ” he tried to reach Julian and the hypospray to get the vial into it, but he wasn’t even halfway when he collapsed onto his knees. He couldn’t move his arm and his fingers were cramping so tight against the tiny flask that he wondered if he might end up breaking the glass. Julian hurried over with his medical tricorder and a brain scanner, and Garak let him do.

“I think you’ll find that I’m experiencing some  _ slight  _ deterioration of my cranial nerve cluster,” he gave him the diagnostic already.

“It’s not so  _ slight _ , I’m afraid,” Julian fumed as he lowered the tricorder and looked Garak over, “We’ve  _ got _ to get you to the infirmary.”

“My dear Doctor! I have no intention of putting myself on display for the amusement of the Bajoran inhabitants of this station!”

“It’s not your pride I’m worried about, it’s that implant you’re carrying around inside your head.”

“You know about that, do you?” Garak softened and squinted, wondering exactly how  _ many _ checkups and scanners the doctor had performed while he laid unconscious in sickbay.

“It’s some sort of punishment device, isn’t it?”

“A punishment device?” he repeated, chuckling. He managed to get up in an attempt to channel the energy of laughter in his body rather than in his brain. “I suppose, in a way, that it’s what it’s become!” he admitted and closed his jaws tight. If he was going to die, he might as well die like a Cardassian, whatever that meant. This implant was a gift from someone he still loved, even if he’d turned his back on him… and so did his gift now. How ironic, the entirety of this situation… The saddest thing was that Enabran would know. And he would be disappointed with Garak, once more. There was but very little comfort in the thought that, at least, it would be the very last time.

“If it wasn’t put there to punish you, then what’s it for?” Julian asked. He inwardly rolled his eyes as the other kept silent. He  _ was _ going to let himself die over that Cardassian pride of his, wasn’t he? “Garak!” the doctor burst with more anger, no longer caring to hide that he  _ cared _ . If it would make Garak want to live again, he’d shower him in the obviousness of his affections. “I need to know what we’re up against! If you tell me what it’s for then  _ maybe _ I can find some way to remove it.”

“It’s useless, doctor,” Garak turned to him. “Believe me, it  _ can’t _ be removed.”

“How do you  _ know? _ ” Julian squinted at him in doubt.

“That’s the whole  _ point _ . You have no idea what you’re up against. If it could be easily removed, this implant would be useless.” He swallowed, composing himself some and walking over to the shimmering darkness that laid beyond window. “You see, on Cardassia” he looked toward the stars, “I was entrusted with certain information – information that needed to be kept safe  _ regardless _ of the situation. My implant was given to me by Enabran Tain himself, the Head of the Obsidian Order” he spoke the name distinctly, enjoying the sound of it – this was a name he hadn’t pronounced for quite some time… and he was saddened to find it came out with a certain harshness in the tone. Bitterness maybe. Now was no time for feelings… “If I was ever tortured,” he just continued, “it was designed to stimulate the pleasure sensors of my brain to trigger the production of  _ vast _ amounts of natural endorphins.” Oh, the look on Julian’s face was quite priceless now, Garak had to admit. “I do hope you appreciate the irony, Doctor; the whole purpose of the implant was to make me  _ immune _ to pain.”

Julian looked at Garak rather than out the window. How the silence of space seemed to reflect in the mystery that was Garak. But regardless of his stoic beauty, Garak, the plain, simple tailor – who so just happened to be conveniently close to Enabran Tain, the Head of the Obsidian Order – medical care was what he needed to fix that implant.

“What caused it to malfunction?” he inquired, “Surely they can’t have made it so poorly that it’d break before you died?” he continued, frowning. No, there was more to this than what Garak had told, even though it was already one of his truest stories yet. The Cardassian looked away.

“It was… never meant for continuous use,” he admitted his shameful treason and went on to explain when Julian echoed his words, not understanding what they meant. “Living on this station is torture for me, Doctor.” He looked at him with blue eyes betraying his emotions, and started the enumeration. “The temperature is always too cold, the lights always too bright, every Bajoran on the station looks at me with loathing and contempt. So, one day,” he straightened up to gather the little dignity he had left, “I decided I couldn’t live with it anymore, and I took the pain away.”

“You activated the implant.”

“I created a device which allowed me to trigger the implant whenever I wanted,” he specified. “At first I only used it a few minutes a day –” he almost felt like laughing at his own naivety, befitting of a child who thought he could eat just a cookie, and then another, and that nobody would realize the full box became empty – “but then I began relying on it more, and more, until finally I just turned it on and never shut it off,” he finished with spite.  _ Now you know. Now you know what a coward I’ve been, what sort of idiot you shared your lunchtime with _ , he almost felt like telling, soaking himself in self-loathing and self-pity altogether. What remained of him now anyway? His pride was gone. Or just enough of it still lingered to help him fight against the tears that threatened to swell up and run away from his eyes.

“How long has it been on?”

“Two years,” Garak answered with spiteful defiance.

“And now the implant is breaking down.”

“That’s correct.”

“So why don’t you shut the damn thing off?” Julian burst out, finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Truly, he couldn’t understand why Garak hadn’t figured that one out himself – or perhaps, rather, why he hadn’t considered the option. Not even the infamous Cardassian Pride could explain that one.

“Well, it’s too late now!” Garak laughed at the statement. “My body has become completely dependant on the higher endorphin levels generated by the implant.”

“So. That’s it then,” Julian shrugged in defiance. “You’re just gonna give up and let them win?” he accused him hotly, though he really felt like smacking him, something which would’ve been highly counterproductive.

“ _ Them _ ? Doctor?” Garak squinted.

“The Central Command. The Obsidian Order. Whoever it is who exiled you here; you’re just going to roll over and  _ die _ , let them destroy you, give up your every hope of ever seeing  _ Cardassia  _ again?” Garak growled at him, coming over to confront him in close proximity.

“Doctor, has anyone told you that you are an  _ infuriating _ pest!?”

“Chief O’Brien, all the time, and I don’t pay any attention to him  _ either _ ,” answered back Julian in the same heated tone, encouraged by the positive reaction he identified in Garak’s attitude.

“Has it occurred to you that I might be getting exactly what I deserve?”

“No one deserves this,” Julian softened.

“Oh,  _ please _ , Doctor! I’m suffering enough without having to listen to your smug Federation sympathy!”

“What I’m saying is that right now you don’t think like the Garak I’ve gotten to know,” Julian argued.

“You  _ think _ that because we have lunch together once a week you  _ know _ me? The Garak you’ve gotten to know may be sweet, but you couldn’t even begin to fathom what  _ this one _ is capable of,” the spy squinted.

“Well, why don’t you test me? I don’t think you want to die, Garak. You wouldn’t have gone to Quark if you didn’t want to live. You wouldn’t have had that look of dread on your face when I told you Quark wouldn’t come if you didn’t want to live. So please,” he flailed out an arm, “try me. I’m a doctor, you’re my patient, that’s all we need to know right now.”

“Wrong again.” It wasn’t so easy and Garak knew it. If he turned off the Wire, how strong would the withdrawal be? Weak, vulnerable, how could he be certain he wouldn’t break down and slip out information never meant for Starfleet ears to know of? “Before you make your decision to help me, you need to know who it is you’re about to save. You need to know what a ruthless Cardassian you have shared your meals with,” he stepped back to look at the stars. “During the Occupation,” was a good start for the tale, “I was a Gul in the Cardassian mechanized infantry,” he picked one of his childhood fantasies and turned back to Julian – he could see flower benches all around them. “We were stationed just outside the Bajoran capital. Shortly before the Withdrawal, a handful of Bajoran prisoners escaped from my custody. My aid, a man named Elim, tracked them to a Cardassian shuttle about to depart for Terok Nor.” He was starting to get amused with the muddle of memories and the roles he’d given himself, starkly contrasting with the seriosity of the doctor as he listened, all ears, as ever. “Elim got aboard, but the captain refused to let him search the ship, because he claimed he was under strict orders from  _ Gul Dukat _ to depart immediately,” he spoke that one name with spite. “So I had the shuttle destroyed,” he stared at the other, starting to grin, “killing the escapees, Elim, and ninety seven Cardassian civilians.” The look on the doctor’s face was most satisfying.

“You can’t be serious…”

“I followed my orders,” Garak spoke distinctly, sinking in the comfort of acting. “None of these prisoners escaped off of Bajor alive,” he saw the man’s shoulders slumping. “Unfortunately, as it turned out, one of the passengers on the shuttle was the daughter of a prominent military official. I was stripped of my rank and commission, and exiled from Cardassia. So now you know, Doctor,” he walked over to appreciate the dismay washed on this beautiful face, “I hope I haven’t shattered too many of your illusions.”

Julian looked down for a moment. He could see the scene in all its details; Garak’s colleague, Elim, chasing the prisoners, the heated exchange of orders, the final order to fire on the ship. And the explosion. The lives lost. The anger of whomever had lost their daughter – Garak, in the ending scene, sent into exile.

It wasn’t worse than anything he could have imagined; all Cardassians stationed on Bajor committed crimes against them; Julian had since long relented to that fact. That one would commit crimes against Cardassians was different and yet not. But with this story, the only thing he knew for certain, was that Garak was, indeed, officially exiled from Cardassia. And that he’d put enough trust in the good doctor to tell that, was more than he’d come to think possible.

“Listen to me, Garak,” he raised his eyes onto him, staring in the pale blue staring back at him. “Right now, I’m not concerned of what you did in the past, I’m simply not going to walk out of here and let you die. We need to turn that implant off, and whatever withdrawal symptoms or side effects you may experience, I promise, I’ll help you through them.” He was starting to consider the help. Julian could see it. Garak  _ was  _ starting to consider the help. “I need to know where that triggering device is,” he laid the course for them both. “Where is it?”

Garak looked at him, his restraint of his own emotions, and he could appreciate that his dear Doctor did have professionalism after all, and enough so to make the part between his sentiments and his duty. If it was so, it should mean he should also keep for himself anything Garak might slip out. And amidst so many lies, how would he ever be capable of fishing out the truth anyway? In this moment, it became clearer to the Cardassian that he’d been the one lying to himself all along. He feared not what Julian would hear from him. He feared what he’d think of him after all this.

“The desk. Second drawer,” he answered about instantly, no longer making any opposition. Or actually, he did, once Julian came back closer with the device. “I am still  _ not _ going to the infirmary,” he murmured then looked up to Julian. “I am  _ not _ getting those ridiculous clothes on me again. You can help me, but you’ll help me here. These are my terms.”

“And you think I don’t know you?” Julian asked softly, “It was exactly what I was planning on doing. I’ll have someone bring the equipment I need right here,” he smiled. Then he reached the controller to Garak, “I’d like you to do it yourself. This is your life, your decision, after all.” The Cardassian nodded, took it. And turned it off.

“The best decision, I hope.” He blinked as he suddenly felt as if an entire part of his brain had been removed. Light-headed, he held himself to the desk, realizing just how much pain the implant had been inducing. The doses of triptacederine he’d been taking thankfully shielded him from any other sensation, but he felt dizzy nonetheless. “I think it would be wise to get your equipments now, Doctor,” he gulped and everything went black.

##  * * *

By the time Melekor came back, Timun was sitting in the middle of a fleet of ships made of folded paper – he’d replicated the paper and folded it himself. As time passed, he’d put more and more dedication in the craft, starting to draw details and naming the ships with feelings he thought he might be feeling, like his mother taught him. He was quite calm when the other entered, and he smiled at him.

“Welcome back, Melekor,” he said softly, gently. “You look tired and worried… Would you like to drink something? I increased the temperature of our quarters a little more; I thought you might like it. I hope that’s fine with you…” The Cardassian clearly hadn’t expected him to still be up at this late hour and stared at him and his childish display, feeling very cold.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he required to know, biting back on the pain in his throat and eyes, “What do you want? Sex? Is that what you want?”

“No, why would I…?” Timun blubbered in confusion. “Did you think I- Oh,” he started to put one and one together. “Oh, no, no, no, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! You  _ thought _ I was trying to get into your pants?” he asked, embarrassed and blushing. “I guess I can see why you’d think that but from the point you said you weren’t into those things… It’s okay. I mean. Sure, I would not mind if you  _ were _ interested in me, but you’re not so that’s it. I can live with that. I prefer to have you as friend then,” he smiled. The smile died off quickly though. “But… you no longer want this either… I’m really sorry I fucked up. I just… I don’t even get what happened,” he admitted, at loss. “When, how…  _ How _ did I make you so fucking angry at me? I don’t ...get it,” he frowned in sorry worry.

“Don’t you fucking try to gaslight me!” Melekor burst out, suddenly embarrassed to find that tears were now actually running down his face – what an utter disgrace – “Oh I know that kind of act, the  _ stupidity _ act, trying to fake you’re ignorant, but you can’t fool me! I’ve been through this routine before, you won’t smother me. You can fuck my body, but not my mind!”

“What the… what??” Timun blinked in complete puzzlement. He didn’t even know what gaslighting meant, but it sure sounded like something bad. “I would never do something cruel! And if I wanted to fuck your mind for real, I’d just attempt a mind meld,” he raised his hands to his sides. “I won’t of course…” he tried to approach the other. Just one step ahead. “Listen, I’m a bit shitty at those interpersonal relationship things, but…” he could feel the frustration building up, along with more emotions. Whether it was sadness or anger, he couldn’t figure. He sighed and looked down. “But if you don’t want to talk now, it’s... it’s ok, I guess. But please... give me another chance. I promise I won’t ask any other questions about your sexuality, your body, your food and I won’t attempt at massaging your neck either. I’m sorry if I hurt you…” The Cardassian backed against the wall but there was a glimmer of doubt in his eyes as he looked at the other.

“Massage?” he snarked with disbelief and outrage, “You... sexually assaulted me, and now you’re trying to pretend you were just giving me a massage?  _ While saying what you said? _ Ha!” he swallowed hard, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” Timun gave him a weird look. “I… I’m sorry if just touching the neck counts as sexual assault where you come from, I didn’t know…” Then he remembered the other had lived on Trill. “Wait, it  _ doesn’t _ count as sexual assault on Trill. I’ve given massages of all sorts to friends and patients from everywhere, there, and they didn’t see anything more to it than it was meant to be. What are you bullshitting me with?”

“No, I’m a  _ Cardassian _ ,” Melekor snarled back, half a growl in his throat. This was useless. Here he was, arguing and fighting with Timun, when he could’ve been keeping Garak company... Garak was going to die. He swallowed, blinked away some tears. Everything felt meaningless. Timun, on his behalf, wasn’t sure what to do with the other’s answer.

“I’ve noticed that you’re a Cardassian,” he just said. “And a shit-scared one at that…” he looked at him likely trying to fuse with the wall. “Listen, I’m not going to hurt you, right? Earlier I only defended myself against your attack. I’m trying to make up with you so we can continue living here together nicely. Hurting you would be counterproductive in that regard. Same for assaulting you sexually. I won’t touch you anymore unless you’re ok with it. Still, you look like you could use a hug or something,” he went to the replicator. He couldn’t replicate a hug of course, but instead he got a handkerchief. “You could start by drying those tears and telling me what the heck’s going on?” he handed him the tissue. “Is it all because of me or is there something else? Just so I know what I’m dealing with…”

As he slumped on a chair at the dining table, Melekor buried his face in the handkerchief to hopefully wipe the emotions running out of him uncontrollably. Even if he’d been mistaken on Timun’s intentions, what they triggered still lingered, and there was still this feeling of dread about… “G... Garak…” he tried, though his tongue tried its best not to speak it, as if, if it wasn’t spoken, it wouldn’t happen, “I think he’s dying,” he managed to whimper the last words and let out a wail, which he then muffled with his entire hand.

“But he’s young…” Timun blinked. “Although, I guess it did seem like he might be a bit sick…” he admitted, “But dying is something else.” He shuffled from a foot to the other. He moved several times as an attempt to hug Melekor but refrained each time to hold his promise not to touch him uninvited. “Can I hug you?” he finally asked. “Or just give you my hand to hold?” he dragged another chair to sit and leaned across the table, offering his thin hand to the other. “I’m really sorry… You like him, right?”

“He has done me the greatest favour anyone could,” Melekor finally put it into words, his voice broken and full of glass shards that he kept cutting himself on, “You couldn’t possibly understand.” Then, after a moment, of coughing, he cleared his voice again. “Could you bring me a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Timun got up, nearly bouncing off his chair with energy. “I’ll get this cleaned too,” he offered to take the handkerchief back. He replicated two glasses, a jar of water, a jar of lukewarm milk and a plate of cookies. And a clean tissue. 

“I suppose I can’t understand, and that it’s not a time for explanation,” he sat back with the tray. “It’s good you drink. I think you probably need to eat too as I haven’t seen you close from any replicator nor restaurant today,” he pushed the cookies forth a bit. “I don’t know what it’s worth considering you don’t trust me but… I’m here. If there’s anything more I can do for you… I’m sorry, I couldn’t imagine you were so preoccupied…” he looked down a bit and mimicked the other’s position. He reached for a cookie and served himself some milk, because he too could use that. Friends problems always made him a bit miserable inside.

The Cardassian poured himself a glass of water, drinking it while studying the other. He was likely still trying to make them close, subtly catching the ground he’d lost earlier. There was no way he was as unaware of what he’d done, as he pretended to be. Perhaps he should warn Savras. In fact, he really should. Oh, she could fend for herself, he knew that, but he also owed her that much.  Then he thought of Garak again and tears were back, welling up in his black eyes, forcing him to reach for the napkin and pat them away.

“I’m not usually like this,” he blurted out, defensively. “I- I think I should go. To bed. This is too disgraceful,” he mumbled into his hand as a hindsight.

“I think you should drink a little more and have at least one cookie,” Timun insisted. “But if my presence embarrasses you, you can take them to your room. Or I can leave to mine,” he got up more calmly this time. Glancing toward his own door, he noticed the paper ships and figured he didn’t feel like putting them in the replicator yet. “If that’s fine with you, can I wait until tomorrow before removing those?” he pointed at them. “It’s a bit therapeutic and I’d like to make some more during the night.”

“Do whatever you want,” Melekor muttered, also getting to his feet, but much less stable, “I’ll go,” he said and went to lock himself in his room.

Timun sighed once he was alone again. Oh, well, he tried. If the other wasn’t going to have any milk and cookies, Timun would have them. He didn’t feel like folding paper right away so he organized his ships instead, sorting them by emotions, to try and figure which belonged together and how they interacted. He soon got more paper and started to draw maps of how he was and had been feeling, to try and grasp how the ships were moving. And how to get them to where he’d rather they’d be. It almost looked like some sort of war strategy, and in a way, the half-Vulcan wished he could just embark aboard a positive emotion ship and destroy all the negative emotions.

It was never that simple.


	9. 7 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Julian's efforts, Garak's condition remains critical...

It worked well to set up the equipment in Garak’s relatively snug quarters. Julian managed to not only make it an efficient system, but also one that could almost be described as cozy. For hours, he flitted between monitors and tricorder readings, following every second of Garak’s struggle. He was stabilizing, though very slowly so, and Julian couldn’t help but to worry about it. It wasn’t certain at all that Garak would survive – he knew that, had known that all along. This was his only chance, though, and he was there to seize it.

During a very critical moment, Odo decided to stop by and be downright petty in his desire to  _ interrogate _ the spy, and it was only finely trained self-control that kept Julian from instantly snapping at the Constable. Really, he should have thought to forbid anyone except medical personnel to enter earlier – before Odo showed up. But how was he to know that the shapeshifter would be  _ that  _ insensitive?!

It took him well over fifteen minutes to calm down after Odo had left, and once that stress was over, the previous one returned. Used to performing wonders, Julian had to admit that he hadn’t seriously considered that Garak  _ might  _ die. Garak couldn’t die, not as long as Julian watched over him – that’s what he’d arrogantly thought. Yet, here he was. If his condition seemed to be improving, it might very well be just wishful thinking and optimistic interpretation of the data. Julian knew such things could happen.

Eventually, as night turned into morning and morning into noon, the stress took out its toll on the good doctor as well, leaving him passed out in a chair next to the bed. It was good that he slept, as sleep would help his senses be stronger later, but had he been aware of his state while sleeping, he would have likely felt guilty about it. It was a very shallow sleep, however. Easily disturbed – and it was eventually disturbed. By Garak’s tears.

The blackness had receded and Garak had woken up from a nightmare to another one that was reality. The light of the room pierced through his eyelids, and despite the numbness of anesthetics left in his body, he could still feel the pain. He knew of it. He could sense it everywhere in his body, in his mind, in each fiber of his being, and the psychological suffering was the most distressing of all. He’d looked around him and seen Julian, passed out in the armchair. For how long had he been veiling him? For how long had Garak been unconscious? As he’d sat, shame had overridden him, hurling him down the pits of self-pity and horror. He couldn’t help but think of all he’d lost, of Palandine, Pythas, Tain, Cardassia and his life there. How he’d discarded it, jeopardized it completely and utterly so, and of how empty he felt.

He missed a past that could never be restored into the present. He missed those who now had feelings for him that most certainly weren’t anything but contempt, spite and hatred. Before he knew, he was crying and Julian awoke to a blurry haze, getting up from the chair and blinking the fuzz away.

“Garak…” he reached a hand towards the other.

“Don’t touch me!” Garak snapped. “Leave me alone,” he required, trying to conceal the tears away from his voice at least.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now, your blood chemistry is severely imbalanced; you need to rest-”

“I said  _ don’t touch me! _ ” Garak bounced off the bed. A part of him wanted to indulge in the affectionate display, and that sickened him. He felt angry at himself and angry at Julian for making him feel like this.

“Just calm down…” the doctor spoke appeasingly.

“I  _ don’t want _ to calm down,  _ Doctor _ , I’ve been calm long enough” he hissed with spite, annoyed by the young man’s softness. He wanted to see him afraid, cowering in fear, or to see him just as upset. Surely he could understand that they just weren’t compatible!? “Look at this place,” he paced around, “it’s pathetic! To think that this is what my life has been reduced to! This stern old shell…” he looked at the architecture and how even the Cardassian shapes no longer felt Cardassian at all in this bright light. “This… pretty…”  _ flowers _ , he’d thought but looked at the pretty doctor instead. His hand clung around the vase of flowers he’d arranged by himself, cared by for himself… Nothing compared to the grounds he’d tended to with Tolan! He threw the vase down, scattering it in hundreds of shards and a puddle of water. Julian’s eyes widened in shock, but he gathered himself quick enough. He’d known this could happen; it wasn’t the first case of addiction he’d sat through – aside from the drug, it was the same.

“Take it easy, Garak,” he had to stop him before he wrecked his own quarters and the medical equipment along with it. “Look, obviously you’re experiencing some side-effects from the deactivation of the implant.”

“Ridiculous. I feel more clear-headed than I have in the past two years,” Garak put distance between them again, least he’d get physical toward Julian already.  “ _ Two years! _ ” he repeated, hissing and waltzing around the desk. “What a  _ waste _ these past two years have been! Tailoring dresses for insignificant idiots who despised me!” he flipped the desk over with all that stood on it. It didn’t even seem to take any effort! He let out a chuckle at that and walked toward the doctor like a predator. “Before this was a time – a time, Doctor – when I was in power. I was the protégé or Enabran Tain  _ himself _ . Do you have any idea what that means?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Julian answered sternly.

“No, you don’t, do you? You don’t know much of anything,” he observed Julian, stiff and stoic. Oh, the young man was ready to defend himself, evaluating, calculating… Garak could tell but he wasn’t done talking. “Tain  _ was _ the Obsidian Order. Not even the Central Command dared challenge him! And I was his right hand. My power was infinite, my future, limitless! ...Until I threw it away,” he realized he was saying too much,  _ exactly as he’d feared _ . This was all a Starfleet plot to make him talk, wasn’t it? That was why Julian insisted on this doctor-patient thing. He wasn’t there as a friend, no, or was he? Garak was confused. Pain and anger were coming back at him as he stupidly reminded himself of how he’d been the instigator of his own misery. For a second, he felt like he was suffocating in that interrogation chamber again and his breath turned thin and ragged. Something was pressing hard against his forearm and against the pulp of the fingers of his other hand, and he could distinctly feel the neckscales, the military armor and the hair on the skull ...while his own windpipe was being choked by an invisible force. It was a strange sensation, being choked this way, killed, really. Garak could almost feel the warm light calling, but then Julian spoke and brought him back into the cold of life.

“You mean when you had that shuttle shut down to stop those prisoners from escaping?” he helped Garak fill in, though he sincerely doubted it held any truth, and half-way expected that he’d get yet another story to add to his already vast mental library of Garak Stories. Oh, it was a very good library, the books were all written by an extremely gifted storyteller, but if Julian should be honest, it was starting to get a bit cramped in there, difficult to navigate, so to speak. And indeed, the Cardassian, cornered, seeked for shelter in the forest of tangled lies.

“To stop them,” he muttered, turning around to throw his mind racing, “I only wish I had stopped them.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, Doctor,” he sighed with anger. “My disgrace is worse than that, unimaginably worse,” he tried to be creative.

“What could you possibly have done worse than that?”

“I let them go!” he turned around, memories juxtaposing. “It was the eve of the Cardassian Withdrawal,” he looked around, pacing through the room again, seeing it as it once was… Darker, sterner, but so much more Cardassian then. “Elim and I were interrogating five Bajorans,” he made up. “They were children, Doctor!” he trembled and clung his fist, digging his nails in his palm to concentrate while his mind ran wild, making lies on the fly to escape the vivid memories of reality. “None of them was older than fourteen-year old, they  _ knew  _ nothing! They lived in bands out ruins, scrounged for food in the street, they were filthy and they stinked! The room was freezing cold, the air was like ice,” he rubbed himself, chilling from the shivers agitating him for real, wondering why he was even going on, talking like that – “And suddenly, this whole exercise seemed utterly meaningless! All I wanted was a hot bath and a good meal!” he laughed nervously, feeling like crying again.

He could have used a warm bath right now, and drowned in it even. Pain painted his face but he couldn’t even care.

“And so, I let them go, I gave them whatever latinum I had in my pocket and opened the door and flung them back into the street!” he gestured, looking at Julian. How could that idiot stay so inexpressive now? Had Garak broken him at last? Had he told him enough stories that the Terran no longer cared to listen? This might just be the ultimate disgrace for the Cardassian, and the next words came out likely on their own. “Elim couldn’t believe his eyes, he looked at me as if I were insane…” he told with a strangled voice and turned around again, aghast and at loss for his own feelings. He wanted Julian to react. Why wasn’t Julian reacting!?

“You took pity on those children,” Julian said at last. Perhaps this one was the true one; it was a vulnerable moment, after all. Even if all of it wasn’t true, it probably held truth in some way, even if it were just the underlying sense morale of the story – that whatever Garak was guilty of, was an act of kindness. Generosity, perhaps, the kind of act that would betray his loyalties to the Cardassian Union, perhaps Enabran Tain personally. “There’s nothing wrong with that!” he approached. “Two years, Garak,” Julian said in a soft whisper, “Two years, and you still haven’t forgiven yourself for whatever you did. Do you think that makes you a bad person?” he shook his head “It only means you take your loyalties seriously, and that your perceived failures strike you so much harder. And that means that you are an honorable man.”

“No! I was a fool! I should have completed my interrogation and turned them over for execution but because I was chilly and my stomach was growling, I failed in my duty and I destroyed everything I had worked for!” Garak shook on place, trembling with rage or maybe something else, he wasn’t sure. “I dishonored my people, I dishonored myself, and this is what I got for it!”

“And so they exiled you,” Julian concluded, although ‘ _ they _ ’ wasn’t Central Command nor the Obsidian Order this time, but Garak himself. He could see that pain between the lies and exaggerations, but at least, the pain was true, the self-loathing was true. Garak’s suffering, and Garak himself, were real. And each of his every stab at himself, somehow resonated in Julian’s chest

“That’s right! What you perceive as some kind of virtue…” he hissed, “All it has earned me is to be stuck in this place that I hate, that reminds me every single day of my failure… They left me to live out my days with nothing to look forward to but the prospect of sharing yet another lunch with  _ you _ , your arrogant blather and your collection of failed frivolities with ladies.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Julian steeled himself as the discussion took a much more personal angle. “I thought you enjoyed my company.”

“Oh, I did. And that’s the worst part. I can’t believe that I actually enjoyed eating mediocre food and staring into your smug, sanctimonious face. I hate myself for this, I  _ hate _ this place, and I hate  _ you _ .  _ You _ are certainly the main reason for me turning on this implant  _ constantly _ ,” he winced in dark anger. Now how was Julian going to react to this, hm!?

Prior to entering into this situation, Julian had told himself that things could become nasty. He’d thought he was prepared. For anything. He’d been wrong. Garak had somehow, yet again, found a way in underneath his skin, but this time it wasn’t just curiosity and banter, this time it was with the sole intent of hurting him. And it worked. Every word spoken increased the pain, until it reached a level where he couldn’t contain it anymore.

“Okay, Garak.  _ That’s _ your prerogative,” he stated sharply. Thoughts flocked inside of him like a swarm of mosquitoes, each more insistent than the next. Doubts, doubts about everything. What did it mean? Did Garak really hate him? Was the implant the only reason they’d ever started talking? Or did Garak in fact like him but found that his feelings were not fitting for a Cardassian, thus turning them into the opposite instead? Or maybe all he wanted right now, was to provoke the doctor. Maybe he actually didn’t care at all, neither one way nor the other. Perhaps Julian was nothing to him after all, just a medical tool to feed his need for social contact. Perhaps all he’d wanted was for his medical tool to have a reaction of some sort. And he’d succeeded. Bloody Garak. Still, Julian was the doctor and had to act at least as such.

“Now I really think you should lay down,” he landed a hand on his arm with the intention to put him back in the bed, where he’d at least have the decency to be silent. Or so he could hope.

“Get away from me!” Garak resisted and pushed him, causing him to tip over a few things from the medical table – he was  _ glad _ for the reaction but the pain in his head was increasing and fueled him with aggressivity.

“Garak!” The doctor had the instinct to try and contain him, but the Cardassian just went in for a disgraceful fight, screaming a desperate “ _ I HATE YOU! _ ” as he threw the both of them on the floor, rolling over while clinging at each other as they both tried to get the upper hand. Julian had it harder of course, as he also tried not to hurt his patient. Garak had no such concern, though his movements seemed particularly harmless and awkward. His body hurt from the fall and revived memories of blows in his leg and in his right side – between the ribs and the hip. He did manage to get on top, but when he finally landed his hand on Lokar’s throat, the man’s face turned into Julian’s again, and the hand slipped to his torso instead and gripped the uniform’s folds beyond his will. His arm was shaking. All of himself was shaking and light had become blinding again; it wasn’t warm and inviting this time however. He felt something fall onto his back, flat and hard, not understanding how the floor could hit him like that, nor in which direction he stood or laid. In an instant, his mind was gone again.

##  * * *

Garak’s state was deteriorating, and Julian couldn’t stop it – the hyperzine wasn’t working, the cardiostimulation only did so much to help him, and toxins kept accumulating, leaving the Cardassian’s lymphatic system in a critical condition. This was not the route Julian had predicted his treatment would take – he’d miscalculated, and if he wasn’t a genius, he wouldn’t have been so hard on himself about it; after all, there was only so much he could do for a patient whose body was virtually uncharted space to him. Slipping into hyperfocus again, Julian engaged in his intimate relationship with the station’s medical equipment. He pulled up all his recent data on Garak’s state, knowing the answer must be right in front of him – only time was his enemy, but what an enemy it was…

He found what he sought in the immune system, or rather, what used to be a fully functional immune system. It wasn’t anymore. What he found were the ruins of an immune system: the leukocytes themselves had changed – upon closer inspection, the molecular level seemed to have been altered, suggesting that Garak’s addiction to the implant went further than just that. It had become a substitute for his own immune system, overriding it, and now that the implant no longer worked, it would seem that Garak’s body no longer remembered how to fend for itself.  _ Fuck me sidewise _ , as O’Brien would’ve said. Julian would never say such a thing, even less so in front of a patient, conscious or not. But he  _ would _ think it.

“Can we synthesize Cardassian leukocytes?” Jabara asked helpfully.

“Probably, but that would take weeks; we don’t have that much time. We have… three or four days at most.”

“If we turn the implant back on, we might be able to keep him alive another week or two,” she suggested as they both looked over the data. She was right. But it wasn’t satisfactory.

“No,” came the patient’s voice behind them.

“What?” Julian and Jabara turned over and approached, surprised by his waken state.

Not so unconscious as the doctor thought him to be, Garak had started to emerge. He’d figured where he was exactly. He could recognize the smell, the feel of the medical clothes, the light beyond his eyelids, the noises… This was Doctor Julian Bashir’s personal kingdom on the station. He’d taken the Cardassian in again, and this time, Garak knew things were getting critical. His body was failing him. He’d heard the doctor talking about it with the nurse – that Bajoran must have quite some self-restraint to try and help saving the life of a Cardassian, but Garak wasn’t buying her generosity yet. He opened his eyes and decided to give his opinion on the matter.

“I won’t allow it. I never want that thing turned on again.”

“I understand how you feel,” Julian agreed. Garak’s calm seemed almost surreal in comparison to the last time he spoke, and Julian simply looked at him. Was the Garak he knew back again? No... there was something more serene over ‘this’ one. “...But I’m not sure what else I can do for you,” he admitted. Garak looked at him with a quiet smile.

Whatever harm he might have caused in their fight, Julian didn’t seem to bear much traces of. Physically, he was unscathed. Mentally, he was there, by his side, still giving his best to save the life of the very Cardassian who spoke to him with such hatred and anger. And it wasn’t just because Garak was his patient. Julian stood there as a friend. The closest thing to a true friend that could be found on this station. More than a friend, really.

“You’ve done enough, Doctor. More than I deserve,” the tailor kept on smiling. “But there’s something you have to know.”

“What’s that?”

“The truth,” he decided to offer him a gentler tale and a clue. Take or leave. He wasn’t going to tell Julian what to do, but he could certainly give a subtle help. And… oh, he did feel slightly bad for taking this risk, but as he was, laid down this bed in medibay, dressed with those medical clothes, weak and vulnerable, what choice was left? The Cardassian knew he might die, and if so, there was a person he did wish to send his regards to. Enabran would get the message. And so would Garak,  _ if _ Julian came back. The doctor couldn’t help but to smile and scoff a single laughter, shaking his head.

“I’ve about given up on learning the truth from you, Garak,” he told with not so little affection.

“Oh, don’t give up on me now, Doctor,” Garak slowly shook his head. “Patience has its rewards,” he sighed. “Now listen carefully,” he got more serious. “Elim wasn’t my aid. He was ...my friend. We grew up together, we were closer than brothers,” he had to paraphrase the Cardassian word for it –  _ luzzur _ – and let his brain paint Pythas, standing discreetly on the other side of the bed, invisible as ever. “For some reason, Enabran Tain took a liking to us. Before long, we were both very powerful men in the Obsidian Order. They called us  _ the sons of Tain _ . Even the Guls feared us,” he recalled fondly before delving back to more sour memories. “And then was a scandal. Someone in the Order was being accused of letting some Bajoran prisoners escape, there were constant rumors of who was going to be implicated; fingers were being pointed at me. By then, Tain had retired to the Arawath colony. He couldn’t protect me. So I panicked,” he admitted. “I did everything in my power to make sure that Elim was accused instead of me. I altered records, planted evidence, only to discover in the end that he’d beat me to it…”

“He betrayed you first,” Julian pointed.

“Elim  _ destroyed _ me,” Garak corrected. How dearly he wished he knew who was the traitor who sold him to Lokar… “Before I knew what was going on, I was sentenced to exile.” He chuckled sweetly. “And the irony is, I deserved it. Oh, not for the reasons they claimed, but because of what I had tried to do to Elim. My best friend.” And was he betraying Julian too now? The image of Pythas nodded and faded away to let him focus on the doctor. The man observed his patient,  absorbing, looking for the threads of truth that were holding together the garment Garak was sewing for himself – all these outfits, the doctor thought, all these suits, armors and disguises Garak wrapped himself in, weren’t they just a cocoon? A thick, silken shell to keep him safe, contained, and to transform him into… No, Garak wouldn’t come out of his cocoon. He’d never stop transforming. The truth of him could never be found in the characters in his play, but in the pen that wrote the stories. The voice that wove the fabric. Garak’s brilliance, now, that was the core, and in it, laid the treasures Julian sought for – they key to Garak’s survival.

The Arawath Colony. Garak was alone, but Tain could help him. And he would, because he was the head of the Obsidian Order, and Garak was one of his ‘ _ sons of Tain _ ’, a title that implied he might be as emotionally invested in Garak as he would have been his own child, which, in Cardassian terms, meant unconditionally. Didn’t it? Julian smiled and shook his head at Garak.

“And why are you telling me this, Garak?” he asked innocently, hoping that with this question, he’d convey that he’d understood, and he’d do what was necessary.

“So that you can forgive me, why else?” Garak raised his hand toward his friend. Telling him all this was unfair. Implicating him in a relationship he didn’t belong into wasn’t any less dangerous than throwing him aboard a defenseless escape pod lost between warring Cardassians and Klingons, in the middle of a plasma storm. Oh, certainly the doctor was capable of getting out of it – he’d gotten out of some pretty dire situations already, hadn’t he? But what about the future? Whether Tain would come to use him or not as a lever on Garak would tell tales about his feelings, but no matter the outcome… Garak was playing with his best friend’s life to fulfill his own very Cardassian needs.

“I need to know…” he murmured with emotion, “that  _ someone _ forgives me.” Julian carefully took his hand in his own, rubbing a warm thumb over his knuckles.

“I forgive you,” he smiled a little and sighed, “for whatever it is you did.” And he really did forgive him, both for whatever he’d done to get himself exiled, what he’d said earlier, and likely many ‘atrocities’ to come. He’d always forgive Garak, and in the end, he always kept coming back to him.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak squeezed the fingers with the very little strength he had, rubbing them weakly. He could feel that Julian understood as clearly as if they shared the same mind in that instant. “That’s most kind,” his words had never been so honest. He took a breath, inhaling the man’s scent, his image, his entire presence, and closed his eyes, almost as to protect him. That was the full extent of his power in this situation, in this moment, and he had to be content with it. “I’ll wait for you this time,” he murmured and let go off his hand.


	10. Day 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melekor was warned against stopping his medication. Indeed, between lack of sleep and lack of drug, the half-Cardassian's health takes a sudden turn for the worse just while Bashir is away and the medical archives still lacking data on Cardassian physiology.

##  Day 8

 

Stress and emotional agitation had claimed the best of Melekor as his mind kept on racing through the recent events and revelations. He felt vulnerable and hadn’t dared to leave his room since he’d locked himself in there, not even to eat anything, which didn’t contribute to make him feel less vulnerable, nor to alleviate his anxiety. He simply did not want to see Timun, instead trying to comfort himself with what he’d learned about his father. But then he couldn’t help but think of Garak and feel guilty and sad again.

In the end, he’d tried meditating and splitting his mind in four to address his different concerns – Timun, Garak, his family and himself. Starved and sleep-deprived, he’d only managed to float into a hazy maze of himself, wishing he could simply lay down and sleep. But his mind wasn’t so kind on him as to allow him to rest while it felt threatened. Insomnia wasn’t unknown ground to Melekor, and while it came with a certain familiarity, it wasn’t exactly a cause for great joy.

During his teenage years, he’d driven his mother half-mad with his sessions of sleeplessness. Adolescence had triggered his Betazoid half, and amongst the many side-effects, insomnia due to emotional overstimulation was one of the worst. The only thing that seemed to bring him any kind of rest, was to listen to music so loud that he couldn’t hear or feel anything else. In the beginning, it had been symphonies. Calm music. He’d hoped he could lull himself to sleep with the sweet strokes of Trillian string orchestras. When that didn’t seem to work, and when his mood deteriorated due to a lack of rest, he’d turned his bedroom into a literal hell of sound. He listened to aggrotech, industrial cyberpunk and such violent underground music, and because his hearing was Cardassian, his idea of loud was deafening to everyone else. The house  _ was _ up to standards as far as sound isolation was concerned, but this? No, the walls had lost the battle. And his mother had suffered from it – the more upset she got, the more satisfied Melekor had gotten in turn.

In the end, she’d relented to purchasing him a pair of high quality headphones, along with monthly visits to the doctor, to make sure his hearing wouldn’t deteriorate – he’d suffered tinnitus for a while, but with a quick treatment at the hospital, he’d been back in business in no time. But that was years ago. He hadn’t suffered any bouts of insomnia since he started phelenaxinide. Not up until now.

The silence was deafening and so he asked the computer if there was any music available, opening a library from Trill. He was surprised to find it very well assorted with artists of his taste – had he known his roommate was the one he could be thankful to for those recent additions, his satisfaction would surely have been dulled. Not that anything really mattered in this moment. From the music albums, he chose  _ Fuck me ’til I bleed  _ by the Trillian death techno band Sex Slave Symbiont. SSS was a band he’d first come in contact with through Maniel Dalkar, a sweet, introvert boy he’d met during choir practice. He looked nothing like the music he listened to, and was the most chaste guy Melekor had ever known – the contrast had been very intriguing to the half-Cardassian, and the two had become close friends. That was, until Maniel dropped off of the face of Trill, never to be heard from ever again.

How long had he been considered dead? Too long.

As a quick-paced song with a lot of bass filled the room, Melekor did as he usually had: upped the volume to maximum.  _ Snake Breath _ was the title, and its lyrics filled his head until he couldn’t feel his own pain anymore, only the words. They didn’t even mean anything to him; it was the rhythm, the beat, the low frequency abuse that mattered. Oh, the lyrics held a deeper meaning, or at least they had seemed deep to the teenager Melekor had been when he’d gotten into this kind of music – it had something to do with being Joined and messed up by the symbiont, going insane from the venom of the snake – something poetic like that, although right now, in all honesty, he really didn’t give a fuck about poetry. Back to his younger days, Maniel had told him the song made him think of him, because of the scales, and Melekor had taken it as a compliment.

On the other side of the wall however, a very un-deaf half-Vulcan was repassing his Kardasi lessons in the living room when the sound hit – or rather, smashed in his ears like a rusty spear. He jolted up his feet, throwing away the earpiece he used to deactivate his translator while learning the alien language, and stood aghast in a fighting stance when that didn’t make the sound stop. He quickly had to press his hands against his sensitive ears in hope to shield them from the increasing sound volume, and looked around – he had only enough wits left amidst the auditory abuse to understand that Melekor had to be responsible for this outrage, and tried to get inside the Cardassian’s room.

“Melekor!” he shouted at the door, hearing his own voice but vaguely, from inside his own body as the song crushed all other sounds. The Vulcan-Trill quickly started to bang at the door with his feet, howling and screaming for the other to open the door and tell what the hell he was doing. With the aggressive death techno music fueling Timun’s own aggressive instincts, it wasn’t long before he engaged in a fight with both the door and the computer, yelling commands from the top of his lungs.

“Computer, fuck the door open!”

“ _ Unable to process the command, _ ” answered the distant digital voice. “ _ Please try a more socially-acceptable level of language. _ ”

“Oh, fuck you! Computer! OPEN the fucking door!”

“ _ Unable to comply. Door is locked. Use a security control level one to unlock. _ ”

“Then shut off the damn music!” the Vulcan grabbed a chair by its backrest and attacked the door with it, not really thinking through anything he was doing.

“ _ Command wasn’t understood properly. Please rephrase command. _ ”

“ _ STOP - THE - MUSIC! _ ” Timun screamed.

And finally, silence fell. Deafening in its own right. Timun was still banging at the door with the chair, but could barely hear it. Inside the bedroom, Melekor, who had been pacing back and forth on the spot, clad in a long, black nightgown, couldn’t understand why the music was gone, and it upset him. Neither could he understand why there was a banging sound, and when he located it at the door, he decided to open it and was promptly attacked by a chair, which struck him straight in the chest, smacked his lower lip hard enough against his teeth that he started bleeding, and caused him to fall backwards, his head hitting the bed so hard he thought the entire world had exploded in light for a while. Wheezing, he crawled over on his side and pulled his hand over his lip, surprised at the blood there, then hastily looked at the doorway – Timun. He’d come to rape him. This was it.

Some sort of instinct had taken over the Vulcan, and in a second, he’d thrown himself onto the other, flung him onto the floor and pinned him there. Knees apart the Cardassian’s body, a hand on his chest, creeping toward the throat, and the other hand grabbing the hair, he stared into Melekor’s dark eyes. He was seeing red, both literally and figuratively, for he didn’t have his glasses on.

“ _ Silence… _ ” he breathed against the other’s face. Something inside him somehow stopped him from punching the other and  _ beating the crap out of him _ , but Timun felt like he was melting. Like he was pouring down onto the other with his rage, the intense pain in his ears, his confusion, and many more emotions he wasn’t even conscious of – not even bad, for most of them, but poorly treated, unseen, unattended. Underneath him, Melekor didn’t even dare to breath, holding still while staring back, digging his fingertips into the soft floor mat of the room.

The second he felt the nudge against inside of his mind, he realized the other was melding and locked his mind. The images flashed before his eyes, the ones he’d conditioned himself to use, based off of encryption programming. Those were his symbols. His mother had taught him. Daily sessions ever since he was five. She’d try to invade his mind, and his task was to lock her out. He’d never stood a chance against her, partially because as he grew stronger in his skills, so did she. Timun however, didn’t seem to have practiced so much. He was an opponent Melekor could keep at arm’s length. The game was even a joyful one.

Then, he had to exhale and pick up his breathing again. It was calmer at first, but grew stressed pretty fast. He knew Vulcans were strong to the degree that he had no chance to win, physically. Yet, Timun hadn’t yet tried to actually rape him, which was odd in itself, unless it simply was that the Vulcan was too confused by the way his mind was shielded. He did seem confused.

Trapped in between their minds, it had taken about too long for Timun to realize what he was doing.

_ “Get out of my mind,” _ he heard Melekor’s voice speaking, and he wondered how it all came to this.

Emotions were still swirling vividly inside of him and it took martial discipline to cool his blood down. This had gone too far; Vulcan logic was what was required in this moment to lock away all emotions. One by one, Timun sealed the feelings away, slowly recovering lucidity and clarity. He sanitized himself, and finally opened eyes devoid of any emotion. Anything he felt, he disregarded it.

He looked at Melekor and spoke distinctly, without a tone to his voice, “It would be preferable that you never, ever turn on the sound this loud ever again.”

He barely felt like he was present at all. He hardly had any consciousness of his own strength, and felt like he was hovering through the world as a spiritual entity – he was but a mere displacement of molecules, insignificant, and nothing mattered. Not even matter itself. As such, he got up and helped the other onto his feet. Melekor gulped, feeling the taste of blood again, and crept away onto the bed, staring at the Vulcan who suddenly behaved like one.

The back of his head pulsated with pain, his chest felt more mangled than before, and his head rung with sound.

“I’m sorry,” he finally uttered, not for a second taking his eyes off of the threat, “it won’t happen again.”

“Apologies accepted,” Timun answered. “I will make sure to keep in control as well. And I apologize for this inadequate reaction I had.” He pivoted and picked up the chair, one of which legs was somewhat bent. Without even putting so much force into it, he straightened the metal back into a straighter shape. “You don’t seem too injured, but maybe you should get checked at the infirmary to be certain.”

“What-” the other blinked as the Vulcan headed to walk out the room to put the chair back in the living room. It dawned on him that Timun actually genuinely hadn’t meant to be violent, and Melekor could draw at least one conclusion: since Timun hadn’t raped him, he likely wouldn’t in the future, which quite possibly meant he hadn’t understood what he’d done in Quark’s. It was hard to believe, but somehow quite possible.  The Cardassian got to his feet in complete disregard of the pain in chest, and felt the room spin around him as he took some unsteady steps after the other.

“Timun, wait,” he blubbered, stumbling a little, “y-you are not just walking out of here,” he added with importance – it was hard to walk straight when the entire station was spinning around him, and it was making him a little sick actually, but he he ignored the sensation. “It’s an erogenous zone,” he hurriedly explained in his dizzied state, “my neck. Cardassian necks,” he waved one hand, in the air to keep the words going, “especially the scales.”

“I record,” Timun commented in a dull voice. Melekor took a deeper breath yet.

“I think I need your assistance.”

“It would seem so,” Timun offered his arm and helped him get to the bathroom. The Cardassian wasn’t sure how he could be so nauseated when he hadn’t been eating anything since the soup he got from Quark’s, which must have been some twenty hours before or so. He didn’t think about the fact he’d forgotten to take his treatment for hours now – Timun’s present absence of emotions wasn’t there to give him the clue.

Once alone in the bathroom, he braced himself. Last time he’d been hugging toilets, was when he’d gotten food-poisoned after a particularly questionable meal at a Ferengi establishment on another space station. It was nearly four years ago, and he wouldn’t have minded the breakup to last significantly longer than that. Raw acid burning his throat was most unpleasant. But at least this toilet, he comforted himself as he hunched over it, was a  _ Cardassian _ toilet and not one of those awful Starfleet ones – they made them to look like gold, latinum or some sort of white enamel, always trying to make them look weirdly pretty. The Cardassian toilet was more functional. It didn’t have a lot of weird prettifying designs, it just  _ was _ . And Melekor could appreciate that, in a toilet.

Once done, he got up, found a tissue to dry himself on, and got a look at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit: his lip was still bleeding, though it looked more like he’d been feeding on someone else’s blood, and his hair was a ruffled mess. As he pulled at the lining of his nightgown, he could see a dark blue flower of a bruise had started to bloom across his collarbones, and once he poked it a little, it hurt, just like one would expect. Grimacing, he stumbled to the door, opened it and leaned against Timun.

“You really fucked me up,” he muttered into the other’s shoulder.

“I should bring to your attention that you still need medical care,” the Vulcan laid a hand on the other’s arm to keep him steady – in his other hand, he held his personal dermal regenerator. “I can take care of that nip at your lip, but I don’t have the means to scan you for internal damage.”

Looking at what Timun was holding, Melekor saw a spider and gasped in horror – that asshole Vulcan must have figured his arachnophobia and was teasing him! He pushed him, or at least that was what he thought he did, until he felt himself crashing against the bathroom door and falling to the floor, head spinning. More spiders were creeping around him and he tried to swat them and crawl away from them.

“Why do you do this to me!?” he screamed at Timun – he  _ knew _ the Vulcan was the one to have brought those horrible creatures in. How, Melekor didn’t know, but he was  _ certain _ Timun was responsible.

“Melekor…” the Vulcan tried to calm him and catch him, which only had the Cardassian start to scream and kick in an attempt to put distance between them.

“Don’t! Get those spiders away from me!”

“Computer, open a channel to the infirmary,” Timun figured was the only logical course of action. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with Melekor – maybe he’d deranged him with that half-failed mindmeld? – but he wasn’t going to take chances.

“ _ WHAT _ d’ya think yer doing!?” Melekor’s eyes went wide as he heard a nurse answer the call. Driven by paranoia and panic he threw himself on the other, managing to make him fall while he was trying to ask for medical support. “You asshole!” he tried to land a punch but the other caught his arm and they dematerialized. A much more brightly-lit setting welcomed them and hands landed on Melekor.

“You absolute fuckhole!” he cried at Timun while trying to get free so he could curl over himself. Tears of rage escaped him and he felt something cold pressed against his neck. There was a hiss and all went dark.

“Thank you…” Timun blinked at the nurses, looking at the sedated mess they were holding. He hadn’t expected to be beamed too, but didn’t let that disorient him too much. “Is Doctor Bashir here?” he asked at the woman he’d seen the previous day – Jabara.

“He left some hours ago and won’t be back before at least a day and a half,” she answered.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” her male colleague inquired, oddly assuming that the Cardassian must be the one at fault despite being the injured one. “We can call security -”

“I’m fine. He’s not. May I help lift him?” Timun came and easily took the unconscious young man to put him on a bed. “He was hit in the chest by a chair’s leg, hit his head, and his ribs and collarbone were compressed with great strength. I suspect bone damage on top of the head commotion. Your database does not possess sufficient information on Cardassian biology but I believe the patient has undergone a visit or two here.”

“Indeed,” the woman confirmed with a suspicious glance.

“I’m a doctor – neurologist and physical therapist, certified on Trill,” the Vulcan explained quickly while grabbing a medical tricorder laying on a desk, and a cranial scanner. “His head is what I am worried about most. He was delirious and likely hallucinating when I contacted you, which might be a collateral damage of a mindmeld. Are you competent with empaths?” he asked the nurses who just looked at each other and shook their head negatively. “Then my expertise will likely be needed.”

“Did  _ you _ perform the mindmeld that put him in that state?” Jabara asked, approaching with another tricorder.

“It was an accident, but yes. I’d  rather you don’t call Security yet. I will move there myself.”

“Considering Mister Kel’s hybrid nature, I wouldn’t be opposed to more medical help, but this is still  _ highly _ irregular-”

“Jabara,” the other nurse interrupted her, looking at the screen displaying the brain scan that Timun was performing, “the computer says it’s bad and I have no idea why. I’m not trained in treating this kind of aliens; maybe we should let the doctor help us – if you can give your matricule, that is,” he presented a PADD to Timun.

“Of course,” the Vulcan pressed his thumb on it.

“Then welcome in the team,” Jabara sighed at the sight of her tricorder readings. “Several of his ribs are fractured.” She turned to her colleague, “Ches’kar, you should focus on this while I check the database for previously acquired information on the patient,” she quickly turned to the computer.

“Your orders,” the man went to get some supplies.

“If you have some denebericine or trepanazepan, get some too,” Timun shot at him. “Four cc.”

“Make it triple if you want any result,” yet another voice was heard.

“Mister Garak!” Jabara turned to him. “You are to stay in bed and rest!”

“My Cardassian hearing may not be the best, but it is unfortunately sensitive enough to hear all that rumble happening here. I thought I may as well partake then, and, as it would seem, I am the only one here with decent knowledge of Cardassian biology,” the tailor sighed.

“This isn’t regular,” the woman sighed as well. “But fine. You may help.”

The half-impromptu medical team set to work – bruises and fractured ribs were easy to mend, but there was something wrong about the readings Timun was witnessing on screen, and the computer was quite helpless in assisting in the analysis. The Vulcan felt like he was missing on something, something that wasn’t part of the physical and mental altercation.

“I’m afraid I’m as puzzled as you are, Mister Lykes,” Garak stared at the monitor like one would stare at an abstract painting.

“You aren’t most operational, and not a doctor, I believe,” Timun replied. “But if you would accept it, I think that it would do good that you speak to him. Make your presence known, tell that you are alive,” he suggested. “Melekor was in shock when he came back yesternight. He thought you were dying.”

“I guess he was quite correct. And still is,” Garak pinched his lips. “I’ll spare him that detail,” he moved his chair closer to the bed, but looked at Timun still. “I cannot help but notice you too seem  _ different _ .”

“I have locked away my emotions, as a Vulcan does. Had I not, I am not entirely sure what outcome the mindmeld would have had.” He approached Melekor, sullen in his focus. “The medicine,” he said. “He takes a drug.”

“I recall witnessing this,” Garak nodded.

“Phelenaxinide,” Jabara told. “Doctor Bashir was horrified: this treatment is highly dangerous.” She glared at Garak who didn’t entirely hide what he thought of Julian’s alarmism regarding medical treatments. “He proposed to come up with an alternative treatment to inhibit Betazoid empathic and telepathic abilities, but the patient refused.”

“Hm, yes,” Garak looked back at her as if she’d just stated the obvious. “Seems we, Cardassians simply have a more acute sense of drama. But I know the doctor well enough to know he loves desperate cases  most. It  _ stimulates _ him.”

“But he’s not here. Thanks to you,” the woman gave a pinched smile. “He left some notes but I’m not sure what exactly he intended to do for the treatment. This is but an outline.”

“I’m not a chemist, you’ll have to call him or wait for his return,” Timun said. “But for now we don’t have this much time so we’ll just-” he brought a hand to his forehead, frowning from a bit of pain.

“Mister Lykes, are you pushing your sense of drama?” Garak held him with a hand.

“No, I just… I feel something…” he winced as he got closer from Melekor. “Jabara, what are his levels of phelenaxinide?”

“He’s clean.”

“He’s hailing us,” Timun grabbed another chair. “I intend to pick the call,” he sat. “His delta waves patterns suggest  he’s conscious beyond the coma. If we’re lucky, he might have clues as to what we can do for him. Meanwhile, get his prescription and replicate a capsule of phelenaxinide, please.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Ches’kar said quickly, “we don’t have the prescription – Mister Kel asked the record to be erased.” Timun sighed.

“Alright, give me just a second.” He put a hand on Melekor’s forehead to help a steady connection. The feeling wasn’t anything usual however, and Timun felt like his mind was being pulled inside the other – a part of him found himself in the dark of Melekor’s subconscious. As he adjusted to the strange sensation, the blackness transformed into a thick, black, nighttime jungle. Creatures with spears for heads, too many limbs and glowing eyes were stalking the vegetation around them. And there were spiders. Spiders in the trees, on the ground, on Melekor himself. He didn’t even notice he’d transported Timun there; he was too busy screaming and whacking at the spiders to get rid of them – he hated spiders so much! Filthy creeps!

Timun stood still, analyzing. Then finally spoke, “Melekor,” he made his presence known. “Listen to me, I need to know where your phelenaxinide is. And you should know that Garak still lives, and is by your side, out there.”

“They’re going to kill me,” the Cardassian answered, paler than ever. “They’re coming… Help me,” he clung to the visitor.

“We are in your mind, Melekor,” Timun replied. “You are suffering lack, your body is failing because your brain is failing. I need to know where your hypospray is,” he passed his hand on the Cardassian’s face to search for the information. “There… I see. I must retreat, I will be back when you are stabilized,” he promised and vanished into the dark.

In the physical world, Melekor’s body was starting to object to the chemical imbalance. Convulsions shook his body, spasms that made it look like he was having an epileptic seizure. He’d bit his tongue, too, not that he could feel the pain, nor the taste of blood, or the fact that he was about to start pouring said blood into his lungs, causing coughing.

“I need to get back to the quarters quickly, can you transport me?” the Vulcan asked as he returned to full consciousness, then realized what the situation was.

“I could beam you,” Garak walked to the command. “I believe the coordinates are the latest ones in the log –” the others threw him a wild look but the nurses had too much to deal with already to stop their patient’s convulsions.

“I’d rather we don’t approximate this,” Timun specified.

“Then I’ll make sure not to beam only your clothes away,” the tailor answered. “I have a lock.”

“Energize,” Timun closed his eyes. He reopened them in his quarters and hurried to Melekor’s room, quickly finding the medical tool and the container of doses. “Computer, contact infirmary. One to beam up.” He could almost get used to this, he figured. Not dwelling on those thoughts, he charged a capsule in the hypospray.

“Toxins are starting to accumulate in his system,” Jabara informed. “He had a slight stroke in your absence, but the heart is steady for now.” Timun pressed the nozzle against the Cardassian’s neck and injected the drug. 

“Hopefully we can avoid this to degenerate into anything worse. How’s hydration and sugar level?”

“We’re maintaining them,” Ches’kar answered. “His brain condition is still worrying.”

“We’re going to monitor this. Mister Garak?” Timun suddenly noticed the man seemed lost into his thoughts after regaining his chair near the monitoring device. “Mister Garak?” he repeated.

“Nevermind, I’m  _ fine _ ,” the tailor answered quickly. “I thought I heard something.”

“Don’t follow it. You’re not in condition and you don’t want to see what it’s like in there, believe me,” the Vulcan recommended. Not that he could figure whether or not the tailor listened.

Fifteen minutes later, Melekor’s condition seemed to start progressing a bit more positively, even though the phelenaxinide did cause brain damage. Timun didn’t like it, and could see why Julian wouldn’t like it either. Sitting next to his patient, the Vulcan doctor could only continue monitoring thim.

Then at last, Melekor’s eyelids twitched. The light of the infirmary was leaking through them, until he was pulled into the light, eyes open wide. It took him a while to see anything at all, other than fuzz, and the first person he saw was Timun, looming over him.

“Go away!” he made a move to swat the Vulcan away, realized he was strapped down and, as a result, started raging against the entrapments, which in turn made him so dizzy he had to stop.

“He’s getting better,” Timun concluded. “Mister Garak, would you happen to have some Cardassian sense to put into him?” he turned over the tailor. “If that is acceptable for your condition –” as he realized that  _ Garak _ was there, Melekor wasn’t sure what was his greatest emotion: the surprise that Garak wasn’t dead, the relief that Garak wasn’t dead, or the shame that Garak wasn’t dead but right there, just in time to see him in the possibly most humiliating moment of his life.

“I think Mister Garak should rest,” Jabara gave her opinion.

“Actually there is one or two things I would like to tell him,” the tailor got closer. “Mister Kel,” he smiled, “I hope you do not forget that I am expecting to have you over in a few days? I have recently attempted some improvements to the decoration of my own quarters, something a bit more minimalistic. I am not entirely sure whether I enjoy it or not, but I look forward to knowing your opinion on the matter.” It took a couple of blinks for Melekor to get the tailor into focus, but when he did, he couldn’t help but to smile back. Even though he  _ was _ still in his sleep gown and in a horrible state.

“It will be my pleasure,” he croaked, surprised to find that his voice, while getting better, actually hurt a bit. He cleared his throat. The flavour of blood lingering on his tongue was awful, really “I’m not very representative of myself right now,” he muttered in a lower voice, “Do I get to call you Doctor now?” he asked with a hint of a smirk, wiggling a foot, “Because if I can, I’d like to be freed now. It’s starting to get a bit claustrophobic.” Garak chuckled gently.

“It would seem your friend is more of a doctor than I am,” he told.

“It’s my profession, yes,” Timun agreed, “but I’m afraid I’m not a very good one; I very rarely ever had difficult cases to deal with.” Others would have thought the opposite – that Timun was good  _ because _ most cases felt easy to him – but the man obviously didn’t believe so himself.

“The Prophets spare me,” Jabara muttered. “If not for you, he would have died.”

“If not for me, this wouldn’t have happened, I believe,” Timun denied. “I only did the least I can do, and if my presence here isn’t required anymore, I’ll take my leave. If you need me again, I’ll probably be in a detention cell.” Jabara held him.

“Don’t you want to eat or drink something first? If I should be honest, I have a more personal concern about this. What will happen if you go now, is that Constable Odo will come over to try and get Mister Kel’s deposition against you, I’ll have to tell him that Mister Kel isn’t in condition to do so, and then he’ll probably want to talk to Mister Garak  _ again _ .”

“Well, Garak is awake now,” Ches’kar shrugged. “I don’t see the harm in letting the Constable interrogate him.” Jabara threw him a dark glance however, and he shied a bit. “But I guess we wouldn’t want to override the Chief Medical Officer’s orders…”

“Thank you,” Garak said. “Can the sick have a bit of privacy as well now?” Timun turned to the Bajoran woman

“You were proposing to eat something, yes?” he invited the nurses to leave with him. Garak appreciated the departure.

“He’s not entirely half-stupid, your half-Vulcan friend. A lot more ...proper than before too, though I haven’t made up my mind as to which one I prefer.” He moved to untie Melekor. “Would you look at this disaster…” he sighed, looking at the young man’s nightgown. It’d been cut open to provide care. “They truly have no respect for clothes in this place. Well, if we truly must play the part of this insanity, so be it, I suppose,” he went to pick a medical robe for Melekor to put on. He touched the fabric of the shredded gown, finding a fine weaving, pleasant against the skin. “I suppose I could alter it back to its former state…” he mused. Melekor smiled groggily at Garak’s hands.

“It’s Tholian silk, I got it from my mother,” he explained drowsily, probably unnecessarily too, since Garak  _ was _ an expert tailor, after all. “It’s a pity I had to go get impaled,” he mumbled, still a bit unable to tell apart for sure what had happened in his mind or in reality. “Nothing a little thread won’t fix,” he murmured, rubbing a finger over the delicate diamond shape centering his collarbones. He’d always been especially fond of those scales; they came from his father, and they were the closest to his heart. The symbolism had always comforted him. “I’m not going to undress when watched,” he told Garak with attempted serious, “I’m only  _ half _ -Betazoid, and I do have a sense of privacy,” he glared up at the lights, and regretted instantly, groaning a bit at the resonating pain in his head and closing his eyes while the tailor chuckled at his attitude.

It didn’t take long to switch clothes, and once he had, Melekor felt ridiculous. He would have commented on it, but figured that since Garak was in a similar state of ‘animal at the zoo’, it would be insulting to him too. So, instead, he dove into a more important subject. 

“I’m glad you’re not going to die,” he finally told him as an unmistakable grin made its way into his voice, then he got a bit less joyful, adding, “I feel very bad that I left you like that. I know you wanted me to leave, and I know Doctor Bashir was going to take care of you, but... I guess I feel like I abandoned you – and no one should die alone. I’m not sure I would’ve forgiven myself, if you’d died.  _ I know _ ,” he grimaced and added, “we barely know each other, and you probably think I’m a bit clingy, or that my attention is misplaced. Perhaps that’s not even an inaccurate observation,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t know.” Garak sat on the bed, next to the other, making sure to keep a distance that was neither too far nor too close, about half an arm’s length.

“You need roots, and I need ground,” he smiled. “There aren’t many flowers nor soil in space. But there are space stations, and if it’s all we can afford…” he sighed, tired himself. “In times of weakness, we have to draw strength from whatever we can take it from.” He was starting to realize what strain the emergency had taken on him. “You need to rest, Kel. As do I, I suppose… But before I regain my bed,” he looked at him weakly – he was small and frail, eyelids falling halfway as curtains on his blue eyes – “I must say you are quite good at sweeping everybody off their feet, including yourself. You have talents. Don’t use them to break your own neck, Kel,” he said softly, as if talking to a child. “Don’t be like me. There is only so long before we start confusing Cardassian discipline and devotion with recklessness,” he admitted his own mistake.

Interesting advice. Or at least, Melekor was sure it was. He didn’t entirely understand what Garak meant, and his brain was too coated in its own sticky honey to wrap around it entirely just yet. Something Garak said made him think of the rainforest he had visited in his coma. The silver needle he’d found there. The thin roots. He wanted to ask if the other believed in visions, at least of the symbolic kind, but he was pretty sure Cardassians didn’t have any religious beliefs. A half-mangled interpretation of the other’s advice finally made it through to Melekor’s consciousness, and he blinked at Garak, slowly, like cats do. Then he took a deep breath. Somehow, he wanted to tell the other all the stories of his life. But at the same time, he knew it’d be too much, especially in regards to weaknesses and vulnerability.

“You were inside of me,” he finally decided that he could at least share that tidbit with Garak. And anyway, there was a possibility the other already knew, “Before, when I was in the darkness. You were there – subconsciously. You were the needle, the roots in the soil, which I used to mend the hole in my chest, where my heart was supposed to be,” he frowned, “Were... were you aware of your presence?”

Garak froze a bit, taken aback. He was still pale, and the darkness that came to warm up his neck showed all the more. He was too exhausted to control himself so much as to conceal his feelings as well as he should have, and the topic was dangerous. He could feel the pressure on his arm and hand again, and on his throat, but he he shrugged off the sensations.

“You have a fertile imagination, Kel,” he took the other’s hand in his own instead. “Treasure it. We are woven with darkness and light, just like the universe itself. Is there more blackness or more stars in space? Is there a difference between time and sound? Are we all and nothing at the same time? If I was there for you, it might as well mean you were here for me.” He blinked as well, the same way Melekor had. That was a wonderful riddle to throw at someone who could barely think. Melekor squeezed Garak’s hand, then absently rubbed his fingers as he looked into the emptiness of the room again.

Garak was still dying, wasn’t he? Melekor indulged in the bittersweet pain that laced his ribs, smiling despite of it and despite the tears that were gathering in his eyes – he was too exhausted to contain them entirely.

“I should help you back to your bed,” he mumbled, gathering himself in hopes that Garak wouldn’t have noticed the sudden shift of emotions, “your doctor probably put you in it for a reason, yes?” He looked at Garak, trying  _ very _ hard to look happy. He wasn’t very good at it. The tailor didn’t answer yet, looking away so not to embarrass the other further. “ _ Your doctor _ ” – the words were nothing innocent, and neither was the young man’s attempt to play the doctor’s part himself, Garak was certain. The young engineer wished he could be Julian didn’t he? Or rather, that Garak would feel for him what he felt for this Human. The tailor closed his eyes. He had issues to filter out stimuli, and was too conscious of every smell, every tingle of light, every vibration. He could feel the pressure of Melekor on the bed, increasing each time he breathed, then receding. He could feel his pulse in every cell of the hand he was holding.

“True… We are patients, and patience has its reward,” he smiled softly. “Kel. You should lay down and rest too. It is probably unwise for you to move.”

“Indeed,” came Jabara’s voice. “I see you two have been busy,” she looked at the straps that Garak had removed and put her cup down a desk. “Good to see you didn’t fall off the bed, Mister Kel. I’ll bring Mister Garak to his bed and come back at you quickly.”

“I have to talk to security,” Melekor said, getting out of bed and instantly having to hold onto it and lean against, “On the other hand,” he added, shamefully crawling back, “I guess that it can wait.”

##  * * *

It wasn’t every day that criminals handed themselves over, but then again, it wasn’t every day that the criminals were part-Vulcan. Odo’s look of surprise intermingled with a distinct look of curiosity. He straightened up in his chair as he listened to Timun’s tale of the incident that happened between him and his Cardassian-Betazoid roommate who was now at the infirmary and unable to press charges yet. Odo could appreciate that the offender turned himself over preemptively however and gladly escorted him to the detention area and placed him in the alcove he’d been occupying barely a week before.

“One last thing however, Mister Lykes; what do you mean that your father might  _ interfere again _ ?” he asked about the young man’s argument when he requested that Trillian justice be kept unaware of the affair for as long as possible, were Melekor to press charges. “If you know something that I might be interested in knowing, I suggest you submit the details so I can straighten out the formalities. Witnesses,” he put tone into this word, “are always of value, when it comes to cases of corruption.”

“I certainly understand this,” Timun put one foot in the cell but stopped half-way to look at Odo. “Unfortunately, I am being blackmailed and cannot press charges against him. Jaden Mynx, I am afraid, is smart enough to figure out where the ‘betrayal’ came from, and could retaliate. The consequences would disastrously extend to other, innocent people. I am thus unwilling to challenge the odds. But I ensure you, were my hands free, I would hand him over to the Symbiosis Commission myself, as I should have years ago already.”

Odo harrumphed at Timun’s claim – he both believed and didn’t believe him. Unfortunately, since there was no corruption case open against Jaden, he couldn’t charge Timun with protecting a criminal, which was the label for it, regardless of whether the blackmail was real or not.

“I must warn you that my emotional lockage might fail sooner or later, “Timun added, “I am unsure what shape it’ll take, but I would appreciate to be allowed to have a pillow in here with me. To punch. Or cry,” he stepped in the cell.

“I will have one of the guards bring one to you,” Odo locked the forcefield, then stepped a bit closer, hands behind his back, “Jaden has been on my radar for a long time now. Detaining him would bring me great pleasure... are you absolutely certain there’s no way Security could offer you protection against his so called blackmail?”

“That would depends on your ability to interfere with genetic testings in a Trillian governmental hospital,” Timun stared at him. “Or to know if such tests have already been performed… and to make sure the results never surface. It would also probably depend on the sentence Jaden would get, I suppose, and how much restricted his capabilities to communicate with the exterior would be, while in detention.” He ticked a little. “I appreciate the way you run this place. Were Trills to be as preventive as you are, I would probably feel more confident in the idea that it wouldn’t be a child’s game for my father to slip out of jail without having to lift more than his little finger,” he pinched his lips. “But if he were locked up here… and if certain informations could make it to the Symbiosis Commission… Maybe there would be a chance,” he sat on the bed. Odo made a resigned sound, leaning away again.

“I’m afraid that falls outside of my influence,” he admitted. “As long as no Federation or Bajoran laws are broken by him here, my hands are tied.”

“I thought so,” Timun nodded. “Constable,” he interrupted him as he was going to walk away, “Thank you.”.

“I’ll update you on your victim’s status,” Odo nodded and left.


	11. Day 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ywanna Kel is an unexpected guest on DS9 and an overprotective mother... Between deals and telepathic manipulation, Savras and Timun get to have their date at last.

## Day 9

 

Savras’s trip had been eventful. Ywanna – Melekor’s mother – had met her in the spaceport, a large bag slung over her shoulder. She’d been particularly radiant – ice blue eyeshadow, lips purple as sin, and her jet black hair tied back (she’d let it grow all the way down to her hips), all of it topped by black formal wear; a knee length jacket with right sided buttons in contrasting silver, sober black pants tucked into high leather boots, they too closed with the same silver buttons. Already then, Savras had known it would be a long trip and she was ever so grateful when it was over, only to find that Ywanna didn’t leave with the rest of the passengers, but instead stayed to ‘help’ her. It wasn’t that Savras didn’t like Melekor’s mother, it rather was that she liked performing her tasks alone.

Once they finally got to enter the station, Savras was surprised to be greeted by a Bajoran man she’d never met before.

“Yes, that’s me, what do you want?” she asked, aware that Ywanna was looming behind her with great attention.

“I have a message for you from Timun Lykes,” Ches’kar told with a smug smile. “He asked me to communicate his sincere regrets not to be able to make it for your date with you, as he is currently being held in the custody of Constable Odo, our station’s Chief Security Officer, while waiting to know if your common friend, Melekor Kel, wishes to press charges against him for an altercation they had.” That was maybe a little more detailed than Timun had required, but the Bajoran was only being helpful in clarifying the situation… “He thought you would like to know that your Cardassian friend is safe, at the infirmary. We saved his life and he is recovering well. Actually, we were just about to let him free to go. I could escort you to the infirmary to see him-”

“Wait a second, what?!” Savras finally burst out – it made absolutely no sense to her how this could’ve happened.

“I would like to meet this Timun Lykes of yours,” spoke a deceivingly soft voice behind her, and Savras couldn’t help the shiver running down her spine, “You should go to Melekor, Savras.”

“I suppose I should,” she agreed, “I have to find out what happened. I can find my own way there,” she added for the Bajoran. Behind her, Ywanna stepped forth towards Ches’kar, without much of an expression.

“Escort me to his holding cell. Please,” there was no questioning that voice. The man stared at the pitch black eyes with a shiver and nodded. Betazoids were creepy.

“You must be Mister Kel’s mother?”

“Yes,” Ywanna answered plainly, “I am.”

When she entered Odo’s office, Odo had the same question for her and got the same answer. He took some moments to look her over for signs of anger, but when he found none, he figured he may as well introduce her to the holding cells, and Timun.

 _“So,”_ she found his mind in an instant, speaking telepathically as she walked to the forcefield, staring at him with a face devoid of emotion, _“what have you done to my son?”_ The fury in the voice was so dead cold. She could’ve burnt holes with it.

The half-Vulcan froze, then raised a hand to ask for a second. He hadn’t expected a telepathic conversation and needed to shield himself sufficiently that he wouldn’t answer simply by _showing_ her what happened. He had a feeling that wouldn’t do much good, and he’d rather not go through it again after all his efforts to calm down – he now looked more presentable than the unshapely pillow by his side, but he’d been enough of a mess during the last forty something hours that security personnel had been tempted to ask for him to get sedated. Timun was thankful that they didn’t; decreasing the symptoms wouldn’t have rid him of the emotions.

 _“We nearly killed him,”_ he told. _“I and_ **_he_ ** _. My violence and his Cardassian stubbornness.”_ Carefully, he explained what happened, selecting some of the memories and feelings too, trying to let them sip through without letting them overwhelm him again. He started when Melekor cried over Garak’s condition. Locked himself in his room while Timun focused on his paper planes. Then the music on the next afternoon. The pain and loss of control. The fury. The attack and its aftermath. The infirmary. By the end, Timun still stood stoically, trying not to display any emotion. The guilt he felt was however unmistakeable for the Betazoid in front of him. Ywanna couldn’t help but feel proud and satisfied that her son resisted the psychic assault so well, but she had to be concerned for the Vulcan hybrid in the cell.

 _“You need tutoring before you kill someone entirely on your own,”_ she told him, _“your telepathic abilities are too strong for you to handle. To have this ability but without the ability to control them is like handing a weapon to a child.”_ She cleared her throat and drew back her mind from his, “I can help you. You did mend what you broke.”

“Why would you do this?” Timun frowned in slight suspicion. “What’s in it for you?” He wasn’t too used to people giving anything for free; his father and his Ferengi friends had taught him that well, and he wasn’t used to people showing this kind of interest in him either. Not too surprising considering how unstable and pathetic a creature he was – a feeling that didn’t escape the sharpness of Ywanna’s eyes.

“It is an offer, you are free to decline,” she said, but then returned to telepathic conversation. _“You are half-Vulcan, half-Trill, both of which have tremendous telepathic heritage. The Trill may have it as a recessive trait, but it is there, and strong in you for all I can sense.”_ She had to wonder if the Vulcan genes had brought the trait forth or if it was a legacy from his Trill side, but it wasn’t a question Timun could answer, so she went on to explain, _“This means you might have qualities that would be found in neither specie, that you might have strengths that neither side could comprehend. It would take a neutral observer to find those strengths and enhance them.”_ Interesting coincidence, really, that her son’s roommate would be of such a fascinating variety. Timun snorted.

 _“The best of both worlds?”_ He knew far too well that he was rather the worst of both worlds, or at least he felt so. The offer was intriguing however. If it meant this could be a chance to finally improve, control himself, his emotions mostly… _“Again, what’s in it for you?”_

_“That remains to be seen. What are your plans for the future, Mister Lykes?”_

_“Now this is a rather personal question,”_ he answered evasively. _“I have various plans. Which ones I choose to pursue isn’t decided yet.”_ Ywanna stared, unblinking, at Timun. His resistance to answering was not entirely surprising, even if it was unhelpful and unwelcome.

 _“Let’s assume he doesn’t hate you – what use could you be to Melekor? What services could you offer? Is there even something you could teach him? He is_ **_my_ ** _son,”_ she clarified, laying so much contextual value in the word that it became heavy with her presence, _“Do you understand?_ ”

 _“You’re very protective of him,”_ he noted while wondering what to answer to those questions. _“I think he hates me however. One moment he apologizes and the next he starts insulting me again… I’m a doctor, alright – neurology and physical therapy, but I studied and graduated in both at the same time, so I’m probably not so good – but other than that?”_ He wondered. He was good at sports of course, racquetball, parkourdunk, Galeo-Manada and Mok’bara; and there was the whole Vulcan nerve pinching thing. He could cook rather decently and could pilot hovercraft shuttles but his mother forbade him to drive anything ever again since his teenage years, when he used to drive patched-up wrecks off cliffs for a friend, for testing.

 _“You’ll teach him to fend for himself,”_ Ywanna interrupted his musing. Melekor was too vulnerable in his current state, but she could hope that Timun might be able to mend what she broke and reconnect his confidence and his aggressivity. _“Teach him martial arts, whichever kind you judge more fitting for his needs and abilities. Leave his mentality to me, he is my son; I have trained him since he was a child, I know his limits and vulnerabilities well enough.”_ Timun stared at her, bepuzzled. “Do we have an understanding, Mister Lykes?”

“I, ah…” he swallowed, wondering how that would all go considering the little love Melekor seemed to have for him. Yet, that worry diluted in the positive appeal of the promise to benefit from Ywanna’s knowledge, and so he nodded. “I guess we do.”

“Good,” the Betazoid turned around and exited quickly to go check on her son at the infirmary. Halfway there, she ran into Savras, who was fuming. She avoided her but took a brief moment to read her thoughts, snapping up mere fragments such as _“Can’t believe they let Garak give advice”_ and _“Just because he’s a Cardassian doesn’t mean he knows shit”_ and also _“That fucking Jabara bitch.”_ Ywanna considered that the additional motivation she put into Savras to protect her son might have been a bit too strong, if this was how upset Savras was going to be now – well, what was done, was done.

“Excuse me,” she set her bag on the floor and knocked on the wall of the infirmary’s entrance, “I have been informed my son is under care here. I would like to see him.” Ches’kar appeared with a tense smile.

“Ah, _Madam Kel_ ,” he spoke the name distinctively enough that Jabara could hear it too. “Your son seemed a little ... _excited_ at the prospect of seeing you. For his sake, we sedated him a bit. He might not be extremely responsive…” he told with a shrill voice, then added in a lower voice. “I must warn you, we had bit of a ruckus here with your son’s friend. My colleague has a hypospray, it’s loaded and she won’t hesitate to use it.” Ywanna  gave Ches’kar a compassionate-and-a-bit-sorry, smile.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to argue,” she told him gently, “So, I believe you were actually one of the nurses who assisted in saving my son’s life? You have my personal gratitude,” she paused, then explained, “Timun recited the events for me. He’s really quite sorry about what happened. I was hoping I could explain that to my son – he does need friends,” she laid a hand on the other’s shoulder, leading them both into the room. “And don’t worry about Savras, she has a hot temper, and quite frankly, she can be a bit of a bitch – can you believe, she once ruined my only chances of getting any insight into the inner workings of the Symbiosis Commission? It would have made for such an interesting field study in Trillian telepathic abilities, but, well you’ve met Savras: if it’s flammable, she sets it on fire.” Ywanna’s face lightened up at the sight of Jabara, “Miss! Thank you for helping save my son,” she proceeded to go to the nurse. “From what Timun told me, you were one of the more prominent figures in this whole operation; I do believe congratulations are in order – Cardassian physique isn’t exactly easy to navigate.” The tension finally seemed to drop a bit. Ches’kar was easing in, and Jabara had a relieved smile.

“Thank you,” she put down the hypospray. “And you are right. In this regard, if you had any medical information about your son, we would be grateful. We don’t have a lot of Cardassians on this station, and knowledge about their biology is… difficult to obtain, to say the least. Our chief officer is on his way to Cardassia to hopefully get some, actually.”

“Ah, I’m afraid all the data regarding my son is on Vulcan,” or at least it had once _been_ on Vulcan, prior to complete deletion. Just as all the records of him here would be deleted, once she’d manage to speak to the officer in charge. “I don’t think the doctor in question practices medicine anymore, anyway,” she continued with a shrug, then got over to her son and sat on the edge of the bed. She was so proud of him, she could cry. She wouldn’t, but if she’d wanted to, she could have.

“Cardassians are a very vigilant people, nurse Jabara,” she spoke without taking her eyes of her son, “aren’t you concerned for your officer’s safety? Unless they know he’s coming, his vessel will be destroyed,” she smiled and took Melekor’s hand, rubbing his fingers. “What a coincidence,” she added, with a voice that made it clear she didn’t very much like coincidences, “that my son shall be assaulted when your chief is en route to the Cardassian Union – unless,” she looked back at Jabara, “there’s another patient here.” She had, of course, been aware of his presence ever since she entered – she knew a Cardassian presence when she felt it.

And so the tension was back. But before the nurse could answer, someone else did.

“I take you don’t trust in coincidences either,” Garak spoke. He stood but held himself to the wall.

“You are supposed to be _resting!_ ” Jabara shot at him.

“I only just so happened to wake up and as it seemed like the effects of the drug you give me are wearing down, I could use a little injection of a little something,” he smiled politely, attempting to repress a wince of pain, then looked at Ywanna. “I do share your concern for Doctor Bashir, but if you know this much about Cardassians, I am quite certain you already know that they most certainly knew he would be coming before himself even knew he would,” he straightened up, seemingly relaxing. “Is this the latest fashion on Betazed?” he looked at her clothes. “It is absolutely delightful, I must say. This sense of style is certainly what I appreciate most in your kind – oh, I am a tailor,” he specified, approaching slowly, holding himself to whatever was on his way. He’d shielded his mind, of course, but hoped the woman wouldn’t attempt anything foolish when his mind was still mashed by what it went through – and was still going through, really.

“You must be Garak,” she watched him struggle with his walk, “the last piece in the puzzle that is my son’s survival – I owe you a gratitude. Cardassian information holds quite some value,” she smiled at him, while also wondering what the fuck he might want with her son so bad that he’d help him and why he hadn’t gone along for the trip to Cardassia rather than stayed here. There were many possible answers, ranging from the medical condition itself (unlikely), to exile, to faux exile, the Obsidian Order, pride... she very much wanted to ask him, but not in a way anyone else could hear, and she knew better than to engage in telepathic communications with Cardassians without the explicit consent either from the individual or the State. The sight of him, still, made her realize how much she’d missed being around Cardassians. They truly were magnificent creatures.

“And it’s of Cardassian making, actually,” she finally decided to answer his question about her clothes, “I had it custom made back when I lived on Cardassia Prime – to think that it fits, after all these years…” While that one reveal made the Bajorans even more tense, Garak smiled.

“And that it still is in such a wonderful condition…” he echoed. “Only Cardassian clothes hold the durability to look about brand new even after what, almost thirty year, now? – my own mother just so happened to have some garments of rather similar fashion when I was just a child,” he shared the memory he just made up with fondness. Unfortunately, in a game of lies, one took the risk to lose, and with this one, the tailor had just given away a hint to Ywanna. She was quite sure he must have read her book, or at the very least figured out Melekor’s age and calculated from that – at any rate, he’d made up the detail about fashion: her clothes’ design only became popular some five years after she left. And Cardassian memories were too precise to make it thirty rather than twenty five.

“This does bring us back quite some time in the past…” continued Garak. “How fascinating. I suppose you are not wearing it just out of nostalgia? Are you planning a trip to Cardassia?” he asked just like he chit-chatted with his clients. Innocent questions. And just as innocently, he took the chair near Melekor’s bed and sat, adopting a relaxed position.

“Nurse Jabara, I would appreciate 3cc of cortical analeptic, please.” She looked at him. At Ywanna. Then sighed and left to get some with Ches’kar.

“We’ll be right back,” she warned. Ywanna nodded a little at Garak’s question concerning her future whereabouts, looking at her son with fondness instead.

“I don’t visit places,” she answered once the nurses were gone, rubbing Melekor’s hand with both of her own.

“A very precious young man,” Garak commented, “Quite Cardassian beyond the appearance… and very talented. A pity he didn’t grow up on Cardassia, with such abilities, he would  most certainly be in a high-ranking position, right now… But,” he looked at her, “I would have missed a very entertaining dinner and drinking partner!”

Ywanna was both bemused and amused, mixing the two of them into a laughter, both at and with Garak. It could be bait, she was aware of it, but on the other hand, Garak already knew. He’d treated Melekor, he’d seen the medicines distributed to him, understood the reasons. “We both know exactly what had become of him if I had stayed on Cardassia,” she told the other, straightening up and scrutinizing him. Either he was very naïve, or he was part of the Obsidian Order – that was something that _couldn’t_ be both. She did blame herself as she realized she might have just given away too much. She smiled sweetly, “Or at least,” she nearly purred, “I _think_ we do.” Garak shielded his mind some more and forced himself to smile and laugh genuinely despite his headache.

“Oh, I can quite imagine! I did tell him, ‘ _Kel, with such talent in mechanics and your taste in clothes, you would be a wonderful Cardassian woman!_ ’ And he quite agreed. I was this close,” he showed a tight space in between his fingers, “from getting him to order a dress from me.”

“I can’t say I didn’t entertain that thought once or twice myself,” Ywanna admitted, though without the humour that came with it. She was quite convinced, now, that there was nothing naïve about Garak. Not that she minded playing around some with one of the Order’s no-doubt _very bored_ agents; she could appreciate their cause. After all, they were the ones who had to sacrifice everything to serve Cardassia, even their family ties. It was the very reason she couldn’t let the Order have Melekor.

“How do you know he isn’t a woman?” she asked with serious, “There is an ambivalence in his aura. I hadn’t really bothered to look closer, until he quit his studies and went into engineering,” Ywanna sighed. “Don’t tell him I told you that. He doesn’t even know it himself,” she shrugged and looked up at Garak with a small smile. “He is _my son_ ,” she made clear to him, “and he’s going to remain my son, until the day I die. If at that point he wishes to explore those shadows, he may.”

“That is a lovely sentiment…” Garak looked away. “Your son wants to meet his father and, in exchange for a small service, I agreed to help him figure out his identity,” he rolled up his eyes. “He could have tried harder, really. Everybody knows Rokat. Now, that his hidden son comes to _my_ shop, this can mean a lot of problems for me,” he sighed and looked past Ywanna. “When you’ll be done eavesdropping, would you bring the hypospray, please?” he glared at Ches’kar.

“I wasn’t-” the man didn’t finish his sentence. He just came over but Garak took the medical tool from his hand before the other could apply it. The Cardassian could care for himself.

“Go away now, everything’s fine here,” Garak shook his head and shot himself in the neck, waiting for the nurse to disappear before continuing, “Kel said he would be satisfied to just see his father. It would have been nice to watch a trial together and see what then.” He wasn’t so enthused anymore. Having a Betazoid around wasn’t exactly enjoyable for his paranoia, especially when he was in such a weakened state – he hadn’t realized as he said it, but with that last bit, he had also given away that he had access to subspace signals between the station and Cardassia, something Ywanna was suspecting.

“I need to contact him,” she told Garak, “I am the one who took Melekor away from his father, and I’m the one who should justify it – it’s my responsibility, and I intend to take it. If Rokat gets upset, I’d rather he gets upset at me.” She looked down at Melekor, then frowned a little – she thought she’d felt something. “And anyway, Melekor won’t get any of the benefits of being his son, if he’s not officially declared,” she looked up at Garak again, “and he _will_ be officially declared,” she told him with confidence.

“You will do no such thing,” mumbled Melekor, as if speaking in his sleep. Even though his voice was muffled, it still contained a great deal of anger. Ywanna sighed.

“You understand what I mean? Melekor is too sweet for his own good, Cardassia will eat him alive if I don’t protect him from himself.” Garak blinked at her slowly.

“Hm, if you say so,” he nodded, then shook himself a little. “Wait, you were saying? I think the nurse overdosed a little for a change,” he blinked again, as if having issues to keep his eyes open. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I should… regain my bed,” he got up with a bit of struggle. This conversation had gone as far as he wanted for now, probably a bit too far even, and he was not going to take any side while at the infirmary. He ambled away, holding his head and collapsed rather unceremoniously on the medibed. He’d kept the hypospray, though, and clung to it. To think Julian wouldn’t be back before at least an entire day… if he came back at all. He would. He had to. He really had to. Garak would not forgive himself if he didn’t.

## * * *

Timun didn’t really get the time to get bored in his cell. The door from the office opened again and Savras came in. She didn’t look to be in the best of moods, but he smiled at her anyway.

“You got my message!” he chimed. “Ha, this is embarrassing,” he tried to reorder his hair, his clothes, his glasses, fumbling with himself and blushing. “Not exactly what I had imagined for tonight, but I think I’m starting to grow a bond with the Chief of Security. I think he’s starting to take a liking in me,” he tried to amuse her. “Now I can play the bad boy if you’d like,” he put the pillow away and crossed his arms and legs, holding himself with a shoulder higher than the other, head tilting a bit to the higher shoulder’s side, and eyes glancing up at her to look cool and tenebrous. “Hello, Savras…” he croaked with a rocky voice, “If you’ve come to steal my heart, I’m afraid you might have to jailbreak it first,” he gave a sexy smirk. “Naughty girl…” he added with exaggeration.

The display made Savras’ shoulders slump in relief as she could clearly see that Timun was alright. Firstly, it meant that Ywanna hadn’t hurt him like Melekor had alarmingly claimed she would, and secondly, that meant that what had happened had not been truly malicious. All that aside, she was still _fuming_ , and when she spoke, no one could fail to recognize the outrage in her voice.

“If _that woman_ uses mind control on me _one more time_ , I’m going to report her to the Trillian Bureau of Justice!” she sat down in front of Timun, ready to tell him everything (because she had to tell someone, and she couldn’t tell Melekor; he’d be offended), “I just made a total ass of myself in the infirmary, thanks to her, and I very nearly filed an official complaint against the very people who _saved_ him, just because one of them is a tailor whom I don’t particularly like to begin with – as if I’d give a fuck about whether it was legal or not when obviously it was the right thing to do!” Then Savras lifted a hand to rub her face. This was the worst date she’d ever been to, and it had barely started, “But at least you are fine, I hope?”

“I’m fine enough, I believe,” the young man said. “The security staff even gave me a pillow,” he gestured at it as if its presence was a miracle. He looked at her though, a bit embarrassed. “Do you know if Melekor intends to press charges against me?” he asked. “I would understand. His mother seems to be fine with me because I ‘ _mended what I broke_ ’ but…” he shook his head, “It’s hard to trust a telepath, isn’t it?” he gave her a sorry look. “This is all my fault… If I were a true Vulcan, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t know if it’s the Trill part of me that makes it so hard to retain control… I try not to be ashamed of it most of the time but…” he sighed, not desiring to mention once more that he’d nearly killed Melekor, and that it wasn’t even the first time such an incident occurred. “I wish we could just walk out of here at least for tonight, go to the Klingon restaurant, or any other place if you don’t feel like it anymore…” he smiled and blushed a bit again. “You’re a nice woman… I’m sorry to be wasting this night,” he apologized again. Timun sure was good at this flirting business, and Savras couldn’t help but to laugh a little at the last sentiment.

“It’s not as if I had any other plans,” she pointed out, “what’s done is done. I can’t say I’ve never been in a scrape myself – admittedly though, I never nearly killed someone,” she told in confidence, hushing her voice. “I think my most severe crime was that one time when I broke someone’s nose,” she waved her hand dismissively, “Politics,” she explained, “Bigots,” she explained further, “you know how it can be.” Then she took a deep breath. “And I don’t know. Last I saw Melekor, he seemed convinced that his mother was going to fuck you up – the medical staff had to forcefully sedate him to keep him in the infirmary,” she sighed a little, annoyed at her own part in it. “...So at least he doesn’t want you dead or in pain. That’s always something.” The young man chuckled a bit to let out some of his nervosity.

“That does sound like him. He already didn’t want to go to the infirmary, and once he was there, we had to sedate him already.” He straightened up a bit but hugged himself with his crossed arms. “He wasn’t entirely wrong about his mother, though. She has her ways, and they’re a bit rude. But I think you already agree with that,” he grinned. “Maybe we could ask for a chair for you if you intend to stay with me? Or if you’d like to feel what those cells feel like compared to Trillian ones, and keep me some company,” he glanced at the space beside him and shuffled a bit. “If we had something to eat even, from the Replimat, maybe it’d feel more like a date?”

“I was just considering the same thing, actually,” Savras told before asking him if he had any craving – “tomato and milk? And some grilled sort of bread, crunchy outside, soft inside, with butter and salt?” suggested Timun – “Might take a while, the queues tend to be quite long at this time of the day,” she warned him, “I’ll be back as soon as I can” Upon exiting the room, she made to ask Odo, who of course had been listening in on the entire conversation.

“You may,” he answered before she’d even opened her mouth, “you’ll have two hours – and no copulation in the holding cells,” he made sure to specify, much to Savras’s mixed amusement and surprise.

“Of course, thank you,” she answered once she managed to grasp her mind back.

On her way to the Replimat, she consciously passed by the infirmary. She did so just in time to see Ywanna’s figure disappear into the crowd of people, as she was no doubt on her way to her quarters. Excellent for Savras, who discreetly made her way into the medibay. She hated to have to do this, and her throat felt dry as she cleared it to gather the attention from the female nurse who stood with her back to the doorway.

“Can I speak with you for a second?” she asked quite carefully. Jabara turned around and tried to keep her usual composed face.

“Your friend is starting to wake up, but he’s still quite strained from all he’s been through,” she informed the woman formally. She would have added that visits were restricted to medical personnel and family, but she wished she could have excluded family as well now. “ _Oooor_ is it about the complaint file? Did Constable Odo say something?” Savras inhaled a deep breath through her teeth, then nodded slowly.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t have any complaints, and I am... _very_ sorry about how I behaved. I suspect I might not have been exactly myself. Literally,” she added bitterly. The Bajoran kept her lips tight for a second or two.

“How do you mean?” she invited the woman to step in. “Would you care to develop? And-” she grabbed a tricorder and a scanner, “would you let me check you?” Savras nodded, still embarrassed, even though she couldn’t have stopped what happened.

“I have reason to believe my friend’s mother might have used some sort of mind control on me, to keep him from interfering with her interr-” she swallowed- “ _interview_ with Timun Lykes.” Now, she might have ideas of her own, but she was pretty sure that voicing them could undermine her credibility, and she didn’t want to be passed off as paranoid. The tricorder was making a melody of beeps that usually passed off as annoying to most people, but sang tales to Jabara as she waved the scanner around the woman’s head.

“Indeed, it seems like there might have been some slight alteration of your delta waves’ patterns. Computer,” she addressed the console, dragging the Trill further into the bay, “search Starfleet database for protocole in detecting traces of telepathic assault from a Betazoid,” she requested. Glancing up at Savras, she added, “If what you suggest is true, some areas of your brain may have been slightly destabilized, which could, if untreated, lead to further complications in the future, I believe. I am not the sort to take chances with this sort of things,” she gave a professional smile.

“I’d like a full record of this entire visit once we’re done,” Savras smiled to Jabara, allowing herself to feel just a little bit smug. She hadn’t decided whether to take it to court – it all depended on whether Melekor would agree with the decision or not. Getting revenge on Ywanna wasn’t worth it, if it meant Savras would lose a friend. As she allowed Jabara to do her job, she continued talking.

“You’ll have to pass on my apologies to your colleague as well, when you see him next,” she rubbed her arms a little, mostly to comfort herself. She hadn’t realized up until now how _vulnerable_ the incident had made her feel, “and I suppose you might be interested in examining Lykes, too,” she mused, sighing. “I have no idea what she might have done to him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something’s up with him too.”

“Hmm…” the Bajoran nodded. “I believe doing those tests won’t take long now that the computer gave me the exact protocol. If you’d like to take a seat,” she went to take the chair near Melekor’s bed, paying him a smile while she was at it. “Keep resting Mister Kel,” she suggested while she was at it, which only prompted him to act like a stubborn child.

“I don’t want to rest,” he answered distantly with a voice that very clearly gave away the fact that whether he wanted it or not, rest was what his body needed.

“Melekor,” Savras decided to tell him, quite softly and carefully, “I think I might have to press charges against your mother. She’s _really_ done it this time –” she couldn’t help it, she got heated the further the sentence went, and even though she didn’t want to sound angry while talking to him in his state, it shone through.

“Be my guest,” he answered, just as absently, stunning her a bit with his lack of opposition.

“Really!?” burst Savras, too surprised to keep herself soft.

“She broke the law,” he simply stated, shrugging where he laid, then turned over himself a bit so he could better see who he was talking to. His hair looked particularly untidy. “It’s how it is, I suppose,” he added, absently rubbing the spoon at his forehead. Savras looked at him for a long while, before she decided not to inquire any further. She wouldn’t get the answers she were looking for, anyway.

“Talking of charges, is Mister Lykes still in custody of Constable Odo?” Jabara asked while she ran her scans, not-so-absently listening to the conversation. She decided to be rather thorough – Doctor Bashir would have her neck upon his return otherwise. She may not be as talented and brilliant as him, she knew her work was needed for him, and she really liked to see that smug little smile when he said “ _Thank you, you’ve done a good job._ ” She’d found him arrogant at first, but she’d grown to accept it was part of him and ...justified to some extent. “Mister Kel isn’t yet in condition to take the decision to press charges or not, but I just want to be sure of where to find Mister Lykes for the scan.”

“He’s still in detention,” Savras confirmed, “I was just on my way to the Replimat to get something for him to eat. I have to say, it’s my first time dating someone while they are detained. A bit different from what I’d imagined it’d be like.” Melekor groaned.

“I’m not going to press charges, anyway,” he pointed out. Savras found this to be a contradiction to his reasoning about his mother and frowned. “He saved my life.”

“We’ll see if you still think so tomorrow,” Jabara replied. “It is true he saved your life and saved us all some trouble, so if you were to press charges, I still believe he would have some mitigating circumstances for himself…” It wasn’t always easy, having to keep neutral.

“Oh, so he has to spend the night in a cell, simply because you think I’m too mangled to have opinions?” Melekor sulked, demonstratively sitting up, and immediately had to close his eyes. He still quite felt like his head was full of sticky honey, especially his balance organs. “Just because I can’t walk out of here, doesn’t mean I can’t make a decent decision,” he insisted.

“ _Mister Kel…_ ” the nurse glared at him. Savras wondered, still. Regardless of repair skills, physical and telepathic assault were still ‘against the law’. Could it be that Melekor had had a fall-out with his mother? Savras never thought she’d see the day – and she fully intended to discuss it with Timun over their meal.

“I have everything, and if you give me just a second,” Jabara finally said and went to the computer and inserted a rod in it for just a few seconds, “There,” she gave it to the woman. “You have all the informations concerning your condition, and a proof of the telepathic assault and that care was provided to you to ensure you recover well. Thankfully, the damage I detected was benign, and neurostimulation proved efficient to regenerate the affected areas. I believe you shall be just fine ...which doesn’t render the assault less problematic. I’ll transmit the data to Constable Odo as well when my shift is over, and will testify if necessary. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy your date.” She looked far too happy about this, but she simply was quite satisfied that her suspicions had proven correct in the end.

“Thank you,” the Trill told the nurse, “I do have to say, if this is as far as _rebellious_ goes, you’ve done a pretty good job at sedating Melekor. He really hates getting medical attention,” she told. “There was this one time on Starbase 74-”

“When something happened that is of interest to absolutely no one but me,” Melekor interjected, glaring daggers at her, “Now, I’m really quite in need of rest. You should leave.” Savras’ lips formed a round O, though she was still amused.

“He seems to still be himself,” she pointed out to Jabara. Now she couldn’t help but to chuckle, “I’m very grateful you managed to heal him. I’ll go to the Replimat to get some food for myself and Lykes – will you be examining him straight away? Want me to get you something, tea, hot chocolate...?” Plus, Jabara was actually kind of cute.

“That’s very nice of you!” she chimed. “But I still have two and a half more hours here. My shift was extended in the doctor’s absence, and those Cardassian gentlemen require full medical attention _no matter whether they like it or not_ ,” she smirked at Melekor. “But if you’ve got nothing to do by this time, I wouldn’t be against sharing a cup of ginger tea once out of the security office,” she smiled at Savras.

 _Wait._ Both Melekor _and_ that Garak tailor creep were there for medical care? What were the odds for that? Probably pretty slim. It did explain why the tailor wouldn’t object to helping out.

“The Constable has granted me a two-hour dinner with Lykes, if you’re still interested to go for tea after that, I’m game,” she agreed. In the background, Melekor shook his head and laid back down on the medical bed – no doubt griping over the fact that _everyone but him_ had a love life. Oh, Savras had encouraged him, tried to match make him, many, many times… Either he was entirely oblivious, or he just wasn’t inclined to romantic feelings. Perhaps it was a Cardassian thing – because it certainly wasn’t a Betazoid thing.

## * * *

“I’m sorry, it took a bit longer than I meant it to,” Savras excused herself when she arrived, escorted by a guard who let her inside the cell.

“I wasn’t going anywhere anyway,” Timun couldn’t help the cheesy reply. The food smelled good and reminded him how much empty his stomach was, and when she handed him his bowl of soup, he had to remind himself not to just throw himself over the meal like a Ferengi on a pile of latinum. Savras set the box of breads between them, shuffled the lids from the bowls in the bag under the bench and they could start eating.

“Actually,” she said, “I passed by the infirmary for some quick apologies and, one thing leading to another, I’ve decided to press charges against Ywanna,” she announced. “And the _best_ is that Melekor doesn’t seem to care what happens to her,” she sponged some soup with the bread. “Oh, and I don’t think he’s going to press charges against you, by the way. Kind of amusing, really.”

“Melekor is full of surprises…” Timun couldn’t help a little moan of satisfaction as he got to eat, “but after having met his mother, I understand a number of those things. I suppose he wants a bit of fresh air,” he nodded. “It’s the first time I meet a telepath who is obviously more talented than my own Vulcan mother,” he told thoughtfully. “My mother tried to teach me certain things to help me cope with my emotions, but I always thought I just wasn’t very good at it, and that it was the reason I couldn’t use those abilities to…” now that was getting embarrassing if he had to mention pon’farr. “Anyway, Ywanna seems to think I have potential and offered to tutor me,” he licked his lips and smirked a little. “I _do_ find such generous offers to be _extremely_ suspicious. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the regular company of Ferengi, maybe it’s because she’s a telepath, or maybe it’s even because she went to Cardassia and _came back_ from it, with a child moreover,” he listed. “Maybe I’m quite prejudiced, but in any way, I’ve often found that my prejudices often hold on a quite stable ground.”

“Don’t let Melekor hear you speak that way about Cardassia,” Savras advised, pointing her bread at Timun, “he holds onto grudges like a Ferengi to latinum!” She ate the rest of her bread bun and sighed with delight, closing her eyes a little, “So your mother is Vulcan? How come she and your father…” she made some hand movement, “I thought Vulcans had too many prejudices about other species to want to intermingle,” she explained, realized she sounded specist herself, and quickly added, “I mean, I know there are exceptions, like Spock for instance, but that was a highly unique situation.” Timun chuckled and gave a fond smile at the mention of the name. The tales about the half-Vulcan had certainly been what motivated him, back when he was a child, to want to join Starfleet when he’d be of age.

“My mother is a bit special,” he admitted. “By Vulcan standards, she’s no longer a Vulcan. She was the rare sort who attempted to find a balance between reason and emotions. I suppose she was always more open-minded, curious and intrepid. Tenacious too. Stubborn, maybe irrational at times,” he smiled. “A lot of Vulcans are irrational if I must be honest, because mere logic can defend absolutely anything, even the undefendable.” He sipped a bit of soup, wondering if Savras would be horrified and condemning about the exile story too. “It’s quite funny, because I told Melekor the story I’m about to tell, and he was outraged about what happened to me, saying it was unfair. Now that he’s laying at the infirmary, I wonder if his opinion will have changed…” he smiled cunningly.

“Vulcans,” he started again, “have a violent past, and despite having become more peaceful through the suppression of emotions, it does not seem like we’ve evolved to become more peaceful at the core. We still have those violent pulsions and tendencies to anger that can lead to dangerous outbursts if we don’t control ourselves. Loss of control,” he pointed, “that’s exactly what happened earlier. That’s why expressing emotions is _forbidden_ for Vulcans. My mother, Nysar, didn’t just do that. She _taught_ her ways to her students, and that’s the reason why she and I were exiled. I have a suspicion that she hoped that as a half-Vulcan, I would be more successful in expressing and managing emotions, and that it’s why she conceived me with a Trill. Or maybe she just wanted to secure her relationship with Jaden through ties of parenthood because she knew she risked exile. When I see myself, when I see what I’ve done yesternight… I really understand why exiling me was a logical choice.” Savras took a moment to think about it – there was something wrong with the entire reasoning behind that, and it took her nearly a minute of silent eating to figure it out.

“Not so logical,” she pointed out as she leaned her back against the wall behind her, “For your mother perhaps, but for you? That exile is the reason you put Melekor in sickbay. If they had agreed to help you maintain your emotions, none of that would have happened,” she leaned forwards and took another slice of bread. “The way I view it, their decision have put others in danger. I’d call it irresponsible. Perhaps you should tell them that,” she waved the bread around a little, “maybe you could get compensation of some sort.”

“I doubt they’d care… See, I know, I’m a danger. But not on Vulcan,” he smirked. “Quite ironic, isn’t it? That a core member of the Federation would care so little about what havok their outcasts might do in the rest of the Federation… and out of it,” he recalled the station was in Bajoran space. “But then, they’re not the only ones to do that, it’s commonplace to just kick out the pariah, and either way, with me being part-Trill, I’m not even sure their methods would have been so fit for my case. But enough about me,” he flashed a smile. “Tell me more about you, Savras. What about your life? How did you meet Melekor? How did you end up with a daughter? Anything you feel like telling!”

“There isn’t much to tell you,” Savras shrugged a bit – she wouldn’t have minded going on about the intricacies of Vulcan politics, “I come from a family of symbiont enthusiasts. I nearly got approved for Joining when I decided to decline. That’s when my mother disowned me,” she grinned a little at the memory. “Met my wife-to-be at work when Melekor and I were still manning a freighter-and-transport ship that bounced back and forth between Trill and the Klingon border. Fell in love, got married, had a baby, tried to go into politics,” she sighed, “got divorced. Doubled as a critical journalist,” she shook her head. “Not a lot of interesting things in my life, I’m afraid. Just a lot of drama.”

“What are you saying, ‘not a lot of interesting things’!?” Timun exclaimed. “That rather sounds fascinating to me!” he clapped his hands, radiant. “I can’t believe your mother disowned you for making this brave choice. Maybe I’m not Trill enough to understand why they put so much emphasis on something so few people can get. Not to mention people become _so different_ after,” he glanced away. “It might have been your mother’s only chance to still have you, to still have her daughter… How ungrateful of her not to be satisfied with what she had, what she made herself: a beautiful lady with a strong temper, opinions, convictions, and the courage to go into politics – one has to be fierce to brave that arena,” he looked at her with a more humble fondness. “I’m impressed, really. _My_ story is very dull in comparison. There’s nothing political about it that I waged on my own,” he flailed his hands with a bit of dismay. “So, what were you willing to fight for?” he asked and got back to eating.

“I have... unconventional ideas about Joining,” Savras decided to try and be diplomatic. “I believe that what we are imposing on the symbionts is unfair. It should not be us choosing them, it should be them choosing us,” she dipped her bread in the soup again. “Conventionally, symbionts are granted to ambitious people, people with political and spiritual agendas, people with high positions in society. Subsequently, we press these beliefs on the symbionts, who don’t have the frame of reference required to make their own judgement. The host might be influenced by the Joining, but hosts are chosen to make sure they are strong enough to still be themselves, in full control, with just minor additions by the symbiont – as a host, you get experiences and knowledge you never would have obtained otherwise. But what do you get as a symbiont?” she challenged. “Oh, yeah, the guidelines say that as a Joined Trill, you should strive to reach for a different level of existence, that earthly needs should be secondary; flirting, drinking, enjoying yourself with carnal needs, are discouraged. You’re supposed to ‘enrich’ the symbiont. But is that really what you do?” she asked further, “Aren’t you simply enriching the future hosts? Giving your knowledge and experiences to the next Trill to be put under? The symbiont itself doesn’t give a fuck about those experiences and that knowledge. The symbiont just needs a body to live in. And the system uses them as an elitist tool,” she dipped her bread in her soup, more angrily this time, “And if the Symbiosis Commission decides that you’ve gained experience and knowledge that they _disagree with_ , they’ll exile you. Both the host _and_ the symbiont. And that. That is fascism.” She bit the bread a bit harder than she’d meant, nearly biting herself in the tongue.

“I must say I do appreciate your vision,” Timun smiled, “there _is_ logic to it, and a true concern. If I should be honest, it’s this concern for my father’s symbiont that prevented me from denouncing him to the Commission so far. I worry for Mynx,” he sighed. “My father is very smart, very cunning too, and I guess he fucked the Commission over by managing to go through all that shit and snatch a symbiont for himself. One with eight lifetimes or so!” he agitated his bread a bit. “And with all that knowledge, he gladly went traveling through the galaxy to blackmail this or that person about whatever crap he knew they or their ancestors had done, abusing the connaissance of history and commerce about various places that he’d been granted with. I don’t know what Mynx thinks of Jaden’s acts, I don’t know what effect it has on ...it? Them? Whatever gender that worm has.” He looked at Savras thoughtfully. “I think more people should access symbionts and provide them with experiences that are more real and mundane maybe, but ...people like Jaden? That’s… that’s beyond wrong. He uses that poor thing like a weapon! And that. That is not acceptable. It’s abusive, insidious…” he shook his head.

“It’s odd that they let your father do what he does; I’ve never heard about any Joined individual acting _that_ out of line,” she noted. “It’s quite a risk he’s taking.”

“As I said, he’s extremely smart. He’s a skilled manipulator and he can be extremely diligent and charming,” he squinted, mocking his father’s expression of seductive kindness. “I suppose the Commissioners who might know of his actions are probably in a tie, because they risk their position – imagine just what a scandal it would be if people learned about those things, those mistakes – because it can’t be the only time it’s happened. I’ve thought about it sometimes. I’ve wondered. If my father could get a symbiont… how many such people could? And how many more assholes would try and get one for personal gain? In this regard, the Commission’s position _would_ seem logical, but the flaw is also that by putting symbionts on such a pedestal of grandeur, they make them _a lot_ more attractive to people like my father. So, in a way, they might be creating the problem they supposedly fight against.”

“Right now, symbionts are being used as slaves to further the agenda of the Symbiosis Commission,” Savras somewhat agreed. “See, the host generally has a greater impact on the symbiont than vice versa,” Savras explained as she grabbed her bowl and warmed her hands. “That’s why symbionts too face exile if the host behaved in a way the Commission doesn’t approve – even after the host has died, those memories, opinions, values, experiences that the host held, will still be part of the symbiont. That is why I believe we should not impose societal values on the symbiont, and why the hosts should be chosen by the symbionts themselves instead, by screening prospective candidates, finding the one they _emotionally_ feel the most connected to,” she tipped the bowl and sipped a little. “Quite unfortunate that it’s my political views that got me banned from practicing politics. Well, _they_ claim it’s because I broke a congressman’s nose during a debate. I think they sent him in there solely to psych me to the point where I’d lose my temper.”

“Too bad indeed!” Timun looked at her, eyes wide with interest. “Your idea sounds very progressive! If symbionts are the ones to choose the host, then I suppose it would make everybody thrive to propose their best and be chosen. ...Provided that symbionts can be more, as a society, than mere servers for knowledge. Do they even have some form of society?” he wondered, drinking his soup. He had no fucking idea.

“They _are_ capable of telepathic communication, but to what extent they can actually think like we do, I am uncertain. I tend to think they are more empaths than telepaths – which leads me to point two in my argument,” she set the bowl down on her lap – “they would be able to see through the nasty facade that can trick the Symbiosis Commission. So I think the Commission is seriously overstepping their authority in regards to their ‘ _service_ ’ to the symbionts – _service_ , ha! The only symbionts who have influence over the decisions made, are those who have already been Joined, and subsequently colored with the views and values of the host. Very convenient for Trillian society; I don’t know where science would have been without the symbionts, but not very far, that is certain. _We are taking advantage of them,_ ” she stabbed her leg with a couple of fingers for each word she spoke, “and I think we need to return to a more organic relationship. A mutual understanding of each other’s needs. I think host and symbiont should know each other prior to Joining – _I think_ the symbiont should get the opportunity to return to the ponds between each Joining, review and rest. Not just get rushed on to the next – oh, I know, the Commission holds the idea that if a symbiont isn’t Joined to a new host within a certain amount of time, it dies. And that might be true, if it was outside of the ponds and away from its kind,” she slapped her knee and leaned back against the wall. “Melekor’s mother agrees with me,” she suddenly felt the need to admit, “she was willing to work with me to get me the information I needed to confirm my suspicions. The Commission figured it out, and it was my fault. And she still hasn’t forgiven me. I haven’t either.” Timun felt bad about this but still managed to smile.

“Not everything’s lost, though. You were fighting against something much greater than you, that’s true, but it’s not hopeless yet,” he set his hand on her lap. “I suppose we all have something we can’t forgive ourselves without great difficulty. I’m not sure how yet, but I’m certain there’s still a way to topple down the Commission. It might take time, but stalling for it is all they can do. We’re much more numerous than them,” he smiled, “and inequality triggers conflict, and conflict destroy empires from within.” He looked at her a few seconds, her eyes, her lips, her eyes again; then blushed and grabbed his bowl instead to drink from it again, as graciously as he could. The fire within Savras however was too political for her to notice the sexual tension.

“But that is just the thing,” she just continued, “I _don’t_ want to destroy society. I’m not naïve, I understand very well why the symbionts must be protected, why there has to be a restriction… if we go to revolution over this, as many wish to, we risk falling into chaos. And through that chaos, who will protect the symbionts? What will happen to them? That’s why this purge must come from within, and why it’s most unfortunate that I’ve been locked out from being able to change anything at all. They are starting to give very little choice to certain extremist groups. It’s a time bomb, one that I would have loved to help diffuse, but now my hands are tied. I think, honestly, that they don’t realize the danger that the Trillian society is in. What’s about to happen. And it’s to be expected – symbionts only get Joined to hosts who are similar to one another. They never get to see diversity, and don’t forget, this is why the political monopoly of the Joined crashed in the first place – it will happen again. Except this time, I hold doubt it’ll be as peaceful.”

There was a silence during which they just ate. Timun thought of all that, then brightened as he suddenly recalled something.

“You know, I’ve seen a Trill on this station. On one hand, she’s a Starfleet blueshirt, and as such, likely Joined. On the other hand, I’ve seen her drinking and playing games in the late hours at Quark’s. Does seem like a somewhat unusual person… and far away enough from home to maybe look at it with sufficient distance that she could be critical of it? I might be wrong, but maybe she could be an ally of some sort?” he suggested.

“I can’t,” Savras answered instantly, “if she’s Joined, I would be risking her and her symbiont’s future by involving her. I’m just not prepared to do that – you see what kind of deadlock people like me are in? I have opinions I’m concerned to share with Joined individuals, because no matter their reaction to them, it’ll always be bad in the end; if she doesn’t agree with me, I could get in trouble for spreading ‘terrorist propaganda’, if she _does_ agree with me, then _she_ becomes a terrorist in the eyes of the Commission, and they’ll either take her to trial and claim the symbiont back, or it’s exile,” she snorted. “Trill shouldn’t be in the Federation, we still have death penalty.”

“True,” Timun set his empty bowl and the empty bread box down under the bench, taking the opportunity to shuffle closer to her. The warmth of the meal felt good inside him, though he did feel another kind of warmth too. “Maybe you should consider returning to politics, though.”

“I can’t, not until I’m sure my daughter had her chance to get Joined. I can’t afford to be an influence on her. The Commission knows that,” she added and looked down at her soup. “That’s why my ex-wife is her caretaker, and not I. I only see her once a day every month.” While it made sense, that didn’t make it less hard to stomach.

“How old is she?” he asked. “And… were your opinions a cause for your divorce?” he dared to ask. “Your ex, you still… you like her?” Savras didn’t want to think about this, and the topic was starting to go places that were too painful. Yet, she still answered.

“Mirna – my daughter – will be turning five in a couple of months, and my ex… Let’s say I like her enough that I didn’t want her family to disown her due to my... tendency to punch politicians, I guess,” she fired a smile at Timun, “Worried about competition, are you?” – He chuckled.

“Well, I suppose it’s good we discuss that now,” he blushed a bit. “I’m not worried about competition, no. But I think you should know I’ve often been very fine dating more than one person at the same time. Sometimes they dated each other too, most times not. I’m not involved with anyone else currently, so I thought I’d let you know… And let you tell me what you think of that.” He didn’t expand on sexuality, that would be yet another topic that Savras could choose to reach if she wanted.

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I go have a cup of tea with nurse Jabara once we’re done here?” she assumed and finished her bowl, putting it with Timun’s under the bench as she continued, “It’s not everyday you meet a handsome, brilliant young woman like that, honestly.” Timun laughed brightly.

“I _seeee_ how it is!” He looked at her and licked his teeth nervously. “It’s quite funny. I think she was the one to deliver me that contraceptive hypospray yesterday – I wanted to be prepared, you never know what can happen on a date!” he grinned. “And now she’s the one with a chance to spend the night with you if she wants to.” The irony of it! “Well, that can’t be helped, I guess! But…” he set his index on Savras’s lap and traced some abstract patterns there, “I hope I still get a kiss?” Savras made a contemplative face, exaggerating her expression as she considered the ‘request’.

“I usually don’t kiss people I haven’t yet lost a spar to,” she admitted, taking Timun’s hand to hold in her own, tracing his lips with her eyes, “but I think I could make an exception, just this once. You’ll have to make up for it later,” she purred, moving closer, brushing her lips against his. Very soft, his lips. Extremely kissable.

“I like that rule,” Timun murmured warmly against hers, “it’ll be my pleasure to make it up,” he kissed quickly and kept close from those silky cushions. “As a master in martial arts, I’ll teach you a good lesson. A very good lesson,” he promised in between more kisses, slipping a hand in the small of her back and feeling her lap with the other one. He licked her lips and teased her, playing the game to see which one of them would invade the other first. He liked a daring partner who could top him, one he could surrender his Vulcan strength to. Dominating was way too easy for him after all, way too natural.

“I’d like to see if there’s truth behind that arrogance, boy,” she teased, daring to caress his chest with her hands, giving him no chance to defend himself, as she pushed her way into his mouth, silencing any opposition to leave them.

She imagined Odo must be quite horrified right now, watching this and worrying it would turn into _copulation_.

Somehow, she ended up sitting across Timun’s lap, her hands cupping his face, thumbs along his neck like a collar, and they were both enjoying this hot and tender moment when the forcefield was deactivated.

“That is quite enough,” Odo’s voice interrupted them. “Your time is up,” he told Savras with a cheeky-sheepish smile. Seriously, how did he manage to pull that off? she wondered.

“We weren’t going to do anything,” she feigned innocence. Odo harrumphed.

“That is true,” Timun added. “Constable, please… I denounced myself and no charges are pressed against me yet… just a little bit of gratitude would be appreciated… We won’t do anything, I promise. It’s just kisses and a bit of tenderness…” he echoed, innocently. As if it weren’t sex already with what was going on in his pants.

Odo wasn’t amused, and Savras had to leave the cell.

“We’ll have to continue at a later date,” Savras promised to Timun, then followed Odo’s “ _This way please,_ ” with a wave at Timun. Once in the office, she hesitated to leave, then turned towards the Constable, who had only just sat down again. “Just off the record; how much of our conversation did you overhear?” Odo smiled a lipless smile.

“ _All_ of it,” he said it quite smugly, assuming she’d be displeased.

“Good,” she approved.

“You are aware that the entirety of it might be presented to your ministry of justice?” Odo made sure, quite bepuzzled.

“It’s what I’m counting on,” Savras explained to him, turning around fully, “but don’t tell them I said _that_.” The shapeshifter considered the request, then nodded.

“As you said yourself, this conversation was off the record. You may leave,” he returned to his PADDs and files, and Savras returned to the freedom of the station.

##  * * *

In between the strange interruptions caused by Melekor, Garak had spent as much time sleeping as he was capable of. Really, his degrading condition didn’t make that too hard. The nurses provided him as good care as they could, but he could feel his body failing a little and a little more as time passed. Laying on the bed to save his energy for Julian’s return, he thought of too many things. He didn’t just lay in there. He walked through memories of Cardassia, wondering if the planet was any different after those years of exile on Terok Nor. Oh, he knew it certainly  _ looked _ all quite similar to most eyes, but to his, the place was most certainly quite alien. Too many details would have changed, the air itself would never be the same he once breathed. Moment was gone, years unlived there could never be made up for, and his desire to return home might be Julian’s grave. And what for? For Garak?

Who was Garak? Who was Julian sacrificing himself for? There was nobody such as Elim Garak. A member of the Obsidian Order was no longer a person, they were an embodiment of Cardassia herself. That Garak be exiled from the land he was supposed to represent was nonsense. On DS9, he was but the shell of a Cardassian, the gesticulations of a tailor, the rumination of broken hopes he kept on stitching together without ever managing to weave a future. On threads of present, he walked a thin line of uselessness. He was a discarded shred.

He’d considered taking his own life many times, but he simply couldn’t resolve to do this to what he was. To Cardassia. His love for what he embodied had maintained him alive, but as he waited for Julian, he wondered what signal he would receive from the man who once was Cardassia. And still was, to Garak.

Waiting was torture.

“ _ Come back, Julian… I need you. I need you as a friend, and I need you to confirm I still exist. _ ”


	12. Day 10 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What you've likely been waiting for, aka GARASHIR SEX

#  Day 10

 

During his flight back to DS9, it had been difficult for Julian to think about other things than how despicable he thought Tain was. The fact that, at the same time, Tain was the one who had decided to be gracious enough to let Garak live just messed it up even more. How was he supposed to look Garak in the eye and tell him  _ no? _ How was he supposed to ask of him to continue with his life, while the one man he wanted to be forgiven by, scorned his existence? Wanted him to suffer? How?

And that Tain had dared to ask him to tell Garak he  _ missed him _ , as if somehow, the ball was in Garak’s court. As if Tain didn’t have the power to take him back, so that he no longer missed him. Fuck that man, seriously – not that Julian would ever say such a thing to Garak however; he’d likely be aghast about the vicious language, offended by the emotion behind it, and surely would go into defensive mode. Because for some reason, Garak adored Tain.

Well, Garak could adore Tain all he wanted. He could not, however, ask of Julian to adore him too. No. That was where the line had to be drawn. Julian had his own requirements for whom he adored, and Tain certainly didn’t qualify. ...Even though he had efficiently given life back to Garak. And knowing Cardassians, it might just be a very backwards way of showing affection – or perhaps Tain was more honest than Garak (did you get to be head of the Obsidian Order if you were honest?) and he really only wanted him to live a long and miserable life.

 

Once back on the station, Julian resolved to go to his infirmary instantly, turning up next to Garak’s bed, without paying any heed to any other patients. He made sure to lock the door to grant them some privacy, and pulled up a chair, studying the other’s expression as he laid there. It wasn’t serene, like it sometimes were when patients were unconscious.

“Garak,” he spoke softly, yet loud enough that the Cardassian might hear him, “I have returned, I have what we need to proceed. Are you ready to begin the treatment?” The Cardassian blinked and opened his eyes, basking in the sight of his friend leaned over him. He didn’t have the strength to speak nor to make a proper phrase at first, so he just smiled, reached for the man with a weak hand and nodded.

“I’m all yours, doctor,” he murmured at last. Smiling too, Julian  took Garak’s hand in his own, as to protect him.

“As you wish, Elim,” he whispered, too fondly for his own liking – a soundless laugh escaped the tailor as he figured Tain must have been talkative. Whether it was good or bad, Garak couldn’t fathom yet. Anything was possible, especially the worst.

Meanwhile, the doctor straightened up and took a hypospray from the medical table next to the bed, inserted the tube he’d prepared in the shuttle back home, and went with his hands to press it against Garak’s throat. But there, he hesitated.  _ Was _ he Garak’s friend if he did this to him? He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d sworn the hippocratic oath, anyway. It wasn’t as if Tain stood above that. Still, he was hesitating, and by now, Garak must have noticed.

“Julian…” he gave him a questioning gaze, “what’s in this that makes you worry so much?” he caressed his fingers, seeking for warmth. The doctor sought for words, yet knowing that whatever he had to say would be counterproductive. Garak wanted to live, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have looked into finding a cure from Quark. He wouldn’t have told Julian to go to see Tain. He wouldn’t have laid his hand on top of Julian’s just now. Garak  _ wanted  _ to live. He didn’t even know yet that Tain hadn’t forgiven him.  Or maybe he assumed he had, considering the cure was there. And Julian would have to be the one to deliver the crushing blow –  _ bloody Tain _ .

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long trip, and I just realized how much I missed you,” Julian decided to evade the question, which, knowing Garak, wasn’t going to fly. Then, before he could be wrestled down by more doubts, he administered the injection. The hypospray whispered against Garak’s skin as he looked at Julian, repeating in his mind what the man had just said. Those were unprofessional words if there were any. The Cardassian closed his eyes on them, trying to tighten his grip on the hand there to save him.

“What did he do to you, Julian?” he asked, then opened his eyes again. “What did he  _ say? _ ” He shuffled his body enough so the doctor could sit by his side. Julian didn’t have much of a choice but to oblige. However he didn’t have the strength to look at him after that question, looking into the opposite wall instead. Truth be told, he had hardly slept through the trip. Not only was the doctor lethargic, he was miserable too. To top it off, he felt selfish. And he hated Tain for it.

“He wanted me to tell you he misses you.” It was the one kind thing that asshole had said. The way Julian said it though, betrayed that it wasn’t the only thing; his throat was full of tears that he wouldn’t let out. It was not his sorrow, it was Garak’s, and he’d be even more selfish if he laid claim on those feelings. His pain was insignificant in comparison. Beside him, Garak let the words sink. The least that could be said was that Enabran had a talent for messing someone with just a few words. Three words. A most basic sentence.

“He smiled when he said it,” Garak asked more like an affirmation. He’d frozen, gazing into nothing but his own dismay, maybe. He couldn’t deny that it hurt where he thought he couldn’t hurt anymore. After all that had happened… Garak was an idiot. What did he expect of this man? What… “What even… What else could he say!” he chuckled though there was absolutely no humor in the words. He closed his eyes tight, like blinded by the painful light Julian had just shed with those three words. He took the hypospray away from the doctor’s hand as he brought the one holding said hand above his eyes, as to shield himself some more, resting his wrist on the edge of his nose. “Did he… tell you anything about Elim?” he still had to ask.

“He said that Elim has a rare gift for obfuscation,” Julian answered mechanically, wondering if his friend was trying to torture him with those questions. His vocal cords were screaming at him to shut up, trying to strangle him to silence while tears slowly leaked over his face. Garak tried to swallow the words but found them to be tasteless – a sad contrast to the salty savor no doubt lying in Julian’s tears. Slowly, he raised up and shuffled to a sitting position. This was enough.

“Julian,” he touched his face – the man looked away, so he had to force him to look at him. They were both very tired and pain wore them both too. “You’ve done more than enough. You need to sleep,” he slipped down the bed and pushed the doctor onto the bed, trying to have him lay down. Of course, Julian didn’t comply, and Garak couldn’t fault him – he hadn’t been so cooperative himself either, had he? The Cardassian looked around, a bit hapless as the other instead walked to the door but just stopped in front of it, leaning against it like a broken hologram in a poorly-coded program. The situation was getting to be embarrassing.

“Julian, this is… This is ridiculous. This is your infirmary, your ...self,” Garak blurted. “I’ve been playing doctor more than enough during the two past days, so get out of my shoes and get back in yours, or lay down that bed,” he walked a bit unsteadily toward the table where Jabara last left the hypospray she’d loaded with sedatives, and took it. “You need to sleep, and if you need help for this…” the tailor fumbled with his words in a way that felt highly unnatural. “Please… Julian…” he stood behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. “I guess I owe you to watch over your sleep,” he managed to sound a bit more amused – only a pathetic sound left the doctor.

“I didn’t ask him,” he managed to tell, forcing himself to stop letting his emotions do just anything. When he turned around to look at Garak, the tears that kept flowing down his cheeks were merely residual emotion and messages of exhaustion. “Tain isn’t as sharp as he thinks he is,” he added, quite boldly, “he said that because I’m your friend, I should let you die. But it was never my choice. Was it?” He  _ needed _ to know that it wasn’t his choice. That it wasn’t his decision. That he wasn’t the punishment device Tain wanted him to be.

For all he loved Enabran, Garak had to admit Julian wasn’t  _ entirely _ wrong on that one, at least on the last part. He pinched his lips, looking at the mess in front of him.

“He  _ is  _ still very skilled,” he spoke, “but I guess that if any of us wanted me dead, we would know already. It was probably poor of me to want to pass a word to him when, deep inside, I already knew the answer. But I also knew I would be glad, whichever side of the coin he’d choose. He may not have forgiven me…” he touched the doctor’s face, diving in the black wetness of his eyes, “I still have a lot to look forward.” He looked down the doctor’s lips, then his chest, where he’d let his hand come down, above the man’s heart. He could feel each pulse with perfect accuracy. The proximity he’d created had him blush slightly in the neck as he looked up into dark eyes again, although he regained control of his flush quickly.

“I’m not leaving, Julian,” he told with defiance.

“Thank you.” Those were words the doctor needed to hear. But the relief was only half. Tain had poisoned something within Julian, and it couldn’t be undone. What was to say that Garak wasn’t just serving Julian what he thought the Human wanted to hear? What was to say that Garak hadn’t told the truth, when he’d said he hated Julian? Perhaps the only thing driving Garak forward was his instinct for survival, and Julian had been, not a good doctor, but a cruel torture device in the hands of the Obsidian Order. He wasn’t sure how the proximity between them would have felt under any other circumstances, but right now, in this moment, it felt horrible. He wrapped Garak’s hand in his own, and finally, somewhere lost in his thoughts, Julian broke. An agonized sound left him as he slumped forward over the shoulder of his friend, digging his fingertips in his medical clothes – “Julian!” the cry escaped Garak before he could do anything to retain it.

The Cardassian discarded the hypospray, tossing it further away to free his hands – all he cared about in this instant was to be able to hold his friend fully, tight and true. Which of them clung to the other most was hard to figure out. For a moment, both of them were simply lost in a maelstrom of doubt, shame, confusion and pain. Julian wanted Tain to get out of his head. He didn’t want Garak to see this – he had no right to feel this way, no right to act this way; he was a doctor, not the one who was exiled. He wasn’t the one who was hated by the one man he cared for. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to break down and cry. He had  _ no right _ . But he was selfish. Wasn’t he? Just like he had been when he’d decided to save Garak, just like he had been when he’d sat through the Cardassian’s withdrawal symptoms. Because he wanted him to live. He wanted him to smile, to be happy. He wanted Garak to go home one day, to his beloved Cardassia.

“I…  _ refuse _ ,” Garak finally managed to utter out of his own dismay. “That’s a game I never should have involved you in,” he muttered against the other’s throat, “but I refuse to be sorry about my selfishness. Not now. Not anymore… Because I simply can’t allow it. I’ve damned you and we’re just going to deal with it,” he tried to regain some dignity. “I need you. I won’t let you be hurt,” he tried to say quite factually, though his eyes were reddened.

“Agreed,” Julian mumbled against Garak’s neckscales. They had never been this close to one another before, especially not emotionally, and the doctor felt like his obviousness was vulgar. Felt like he’d ruined how Garak saw him by showing a vulnerability that shouldn’t have been there. Not that there weren’t many more. If Garak only knew of the story before Julian Bashir, he’d surely think him a fraud and it wouldn’t even be a lie. Tain  _ knew _ . He knew and probably found it hilarious that Elim himself didn’t. Tain would win in the end – Julian had a feeling that Tain always won in the end, and it made him feel sick.

And in that moment, he nearly decided to tell Elim his secret. To share with him something he could in no way reveal to Starfleet. But instead, he choked a little on his tears and came to a silent crying.

“Once this is over, and you are fine again... let’s just continue like none of this happened,” he buried his nose in Garak’s neck, comforting himself. The tailor kept silent a moment, cheeks heating up from the sensation on his neck. He wanted to protest, or maybe to indulge. Either way, he couldn’t compute what he wanted most and his breath was getting hoarser.

“Like nothing happened, yes,” he finally echoed in a rocky voice. “But can you forget, Julian?” the name rolled on his tongue in a way it never had before.

Somewhere between Garak’s increasing heartbeat and his breathing turning ragged, Julian understood exactly what he was doing to him. At least  _ that _ wasn’t a lie. Now, Julian had never not taken delight in awakening this kind of responses in others, but even then, he’d never expected to feel as good about it as he did right now with Garak. And it wasn’t just because he’d found a truth that couldn’t be denied.

He breathed against the other’s scales, taming his crying until it was gone and his eyes didn’t ache so bad anymore. Then he brushed his lips over the ridges, up to Garak’s ear, and the small area just beneath and behind the ear, where he lingered in a very chaste, sweet kiss.

“I’d forget anything, for you, Garak,” he whispered into the Cardassian’s ear. The tailor gulped while noting how the other’s temperature was increasing – something he wasn’t going to complain; it felt extremely good. Yet, Julian’s words were yet another kind of poison, or an antidote, maybe. The Cardassian considered them. This very sort of sentiment was exactly what had destroyed his life on Cardassia ...but it was also what had brought him life, there. And in this moment, Garak was shivering where his body wasn’t surrounded by the embrace of his ‘ _ friend _ ’ – they were becoming more than this, weren’t they? It was still time to back out of this insanity, still time to remain true to the Obsidian Order, still time to make the right choice, the choice a Cardassian should do…

“If I’d ask you to call me  _ Elim _ … would you forget everything each time you meet Garak again?” the tailor murmured his question. They were drifting in zero gravity and all he had to hold onto was Julian himself. His heart was beating far too strong and the blood pulse had shattered whatever reason was left in his brain. Yes, Garak was sentimental; a trait he must have gotten from his fathers, both of them.

He turned his face, nuzzling Julian’s cheek and bringing him to face him, lips way too close for decency. “ _ Would you…? _ ” he blinked slowly, like cat.

Julian looked back at him, considering. There had been a time when he’d thought of Garak’s eyes as nothing more than beautiful. Now, in the cryptic darkness of the room, as the crisp blue had been all but eaten up by the black holes, he saw something else in them. A terrifying darkness that told of all the things Garak was capable of. Shadows of riddles that Julian had found fascinating were suddenly very real, and the words the other spoke to him were not as soft as they were spoken. Elim’s eyes were those of an interrogator, a spy, an assassin... someone in power, who demanded Julian comply.

And never before had he felt so safe.

“Yes,” he spoke, their lips touching, light as feathers, “Elim,” he tasted the name the same way he tasted those lips, warmed them with his breath, his touch, the wetness of his tongue. He nearly felt like crying again, and he wasn’t even sure why, but he wasn’t the only one to be confused.

To surrender to those lips was to slip into unknown territory for Elim. Oh, he’d kissed before, but never like this, never with an alien. He was terrified and thrilled at the same time, lost and found. This was much more alike to Julian’s world, this was a waltz in which the doctor excelled. For all the tender moments he’d shared with Palandine, and Pythas too, the Cardassian felt like a complete, absolute beginner and had to let the other take over, invade him, guide him, teach him and indulge him until he could relax and give in.

“Julian…” he murmured the name in between kisses, like a stolen sweet made all the more delightful by the larceny. He repeated it and took another bite. He’d almost forgotten about the indecence of the entire situation. The medical clothes he wore, the tears they’d shedded, the infirmary around them, Julian’s sleep-deprivation… When expert hands found their way to the knots that kept his robes in place, he let them do. They untied the laces and slid underneath the fabric, tracing the details of Elim’s back, up to his shoulders, the back of his neck.

Julian removed himself briefly so he could entirely disrobe the Cardassian, sliding the soft drape down the other’s shoulders, just a little at first. Looking at him, as if it was the first time he saw him. And in a way, it was. He raised a hand and laid it against Elim’s cheek, rubbing the scales underneath his right eye, then his lips, pushing his thumb into the wet, hot embrace of his mouth. Somehow, Elim was innocent, and Julian very nearly felt like he was taking advantage of him, as he stood there watching him, one hand at his chest holding the fabric in place, one hand on his cheek, finger invading his mouth so he couldn’t protest. If the neck was a most erogenous zone for Cardassians, then this image was nothing short of intoxicating, and Julian’s underwear felt quite claustrophobic at the sight of it – he enjoyed teasing himself with beauty.

Admittedly, to be observed like this was a most unusual position for Elim, but he didn’t oppose anything that was being done to him. Letting go of control like this was nothing easy however. He’d seen Julian flirting, he’d always known of the young man’s boldness, but to see it was a thing. To live through it was yet another. His mind screamed at him not to trust the doctor while his body wanted more. When Julian let go of it completely, his cloth slid down over him like a waterfall, ending around his feet like a silent wave. Standing there naked in front of the fully-clothed doctor, Elim was vulnerable, but stronger all the more.

The doctor ventured his now-free hand over the Cardassian’s chest, sliding his fingertips over the scales, the hollow spoon shape, and then the clavicle ridge up to his right shoulder, up to his neck, massaging the scales there, gently heating them up as he closed the distance again, removing his finger from Elim’s mouth. He smeared those lips with their saliva, then let his own mouth take over the task. But he didn’t merely kiss him; he claimed him. While soft and acutely aware to all the reactions – ready to withdraw at the first sign of discomfort – he pressed his presence onto the other, consuming him.

Slowly, gently, he turned them around, pressing the tailor against the doors – the contact was cold, but Elim didn’t complain. One of Julian’s hands moved up to bury itself in the hair at the nape of his neck while the other moved down his side, discovering scales on its way, and then to the center of his soft belly, where it turned and went up over the chest. Then, he broke the kiss into smaller ones, moving back once more. Just to look at him. Elim.  _ His _ tailor.

“You are so beautiful,” he wove the words into a fabric, gifting the precious silk to one who knew would appreciate the fabric for what it was. Those words caused more shivers than the icy doors and Elim trembled. He had to wonder if Julian had always looked as powerful as he did now.

“You are so strong,” the words escaped him with a glimmer of astonishment – how could someone with such a thin neck and smooth skin appear so strong? A thin smile crept on his lips as he looked into the lustful darkness of Julian’s eyes. “You intoxicate me, Doctor – no, Julian,” he corrected. “I need more of you, Julian. All of you.”

Words. Bold words. Julian hushed the Cardassian with a finger on his lips. In this moment of intimacy, truth reigned supreme, so the doctor moved closer, pressing his knee very gently between Elim’s legs, then brushing his lips over his cheek. Breathing heat onto him, he reached his ear. There, he lingered for a moment, contemplating what to do with his tailor. What to ask him. what to tell him.

“You are  _ a virgin _ , aren’t you?” he asked, undeniable smug, and a little bit cruel as he moved his knee. Elim licked the corners of his lips, trying to find an escape to the question but finding none.

“As a matter of fact… Yes.” It wasn’t even a lie. Yes, he’d had sex before, but never with Julian, and he sure did feel like a virgin in that regard. He felt slightly upset too, which in  _ no way _ decreased his arousal. Quite the opposite, really. Julian’s knee felt closer before any of them could have moved – surely the doctor could appreciate the honesty.

“That explains your greed,” Julian thought to tell him, moving down over his shoulder to lick and suckle on each of his scales, harvesting moans the other couldn’t muffle, “impatience is a virtue of the inexperienced,” he chuckled, and channeled the vibrations of this sound into the Cardassian’s sensitive nerves. “Do you even know what it is you want?” he asked, moving back once more to look at Elim. It was as if he had to constantly remind himself that it was happening, that it wasn’t a dream. And maybe it would never happen again, in which case he wanted to see as much as possible of Elim’s torment... pleasure... and untidy beauty. He let his hair go and ran both his hands down the Cardassian’s chest, holding his waist, capturing him. Elim looked at him, his doctor, an almost naive smile on his face as he tried to find yet another escape to yet another dead end.

He was  _ such _ a virgin in this moment, and he’d not really given thoughts to such a question beyond some wet dreams he’d carefully dismissed before. He refused to think of what he’d done with his loved ones – he wasn’t going to offensively reenact the past; there was a limit to delusion – and so the canvas of his desires laid blank with possibilities. He shivered once more; his scales tickled with fire from the treatment they received. It was almost to believe Julian had been with a Cardassian before. Trying to still his breathing, he looked at him, at the bulge stretching the crotch of his pants, then at his eyes, and smiled with more cunning.

“Do to me what you do to your lady friends,” he answered. In any other context, Julian would’ve probably found it to be quite hilarious. But here, he recognized it came from pure innocence (from _ Elim Garak _ , that alone was  _ amazing _ ) and he wasn’t about to make fun of the Cardassian’s vulnerabilities. Tears welled up in his eyes again, and he removed his hands from Elim’s waist, laying them against his cheeks instead.

“But you are so much more precious to me than they could ever be,” he whispered, “I refuse to turn this into a cheap duplicate of things I’ve done before.” It was strange how their will to create something new aligned so much, Elim thought but let him continue, “I thought you, if anyone, had higher expectations of me than that?” Julian nuzzled his tailor’s face, then kissed the inverted teardrop shape on his forehead, his nose, and finally his lips. “I will stop at nothing less than making  _ love _ to you. Love,  _ not sex _ , Elim. Do you understand?” The words transpierced the Cardassian, passing through him as easily as the beam of a phaser set to stun (something he was more familiar with). Feelings engulfed him and he clung to this alien Julian was, desperately vulnerable as he faced the unknown, the  _ forbidden _ , with absolute terror.

“You do love me,” he finally murmured, in case this all hadn’t made it obvious already. “Julian… I’m afraid,” he admitted it like that, too, had just dawned on him. For a second, he felt murder against his forearm and that choking sensation against his neck, like a reminder of the man he’d loved and been betrayed by. He’d always loved him. Elim never knew how to turn off those feelings; those weren’t the things he’d learned in the Obsidian Order and emotions transpired, clear like water in the blue of his eyes as he looked into Julian’s. His cheeks heated up, though. “I’m afraid for many reasons, but I’m even more afraid of this never happening if it doesn’t happen now. I want it, Julian… whatever it is. I want it,” he decided, insistently pressing himself against the young man and letting his hips rock on their own slowly. It was too late to turn off those feelings anyway now, wasn’t it? “I want you, not regrets of what could have been. I…” he wet his lips that had become dry already, “I think I love you. Julian,” the ugly truth left him. The confession didn’t fail to stun Julian. He’d known of the other’s affections; there had always been physical signs there to prove them. But that he’d put into words, plainly and simply so…

At loss for anything to say, he drowned the other in a kiss, moving his arms to hold him, pinning him against the wall and guiding one of the tailor’s legs to rest on his hip. He wished he could have him like this, always; kissing him, on his mouth, his chin, his neck, the small, peculiar little area below the ear, the shape on his forehead, the small pendant at his chest. He couldn’t help but to grin against the Cardassian’s chest before backing just so he could drag him all the way to sit him on the medibed – this time, there were no complaints. Julian then took a step away to start getting out of his clothes, not even once taking his eyes off of Elim. Now, he allowed himself to look at his entire body, at the intricacies of the very perfect Cardassian physique with its slight pudginess.

“I do love you,” he confirmed at last, hoarsely so. “I love you so much it hurts,” the jumpsuit fell to the floor, and Julian contemplated whether he should remove his blue boxers instantly or wait a while, “Garak must never know,” he said as if they were both hiding something from Elim’s other self. It was a little cheekier, that way.

“Doctor Bashir needs to be left out of this as well,” the tailor concurred just as cheekily and let his gaze fall down the blue boxers, “And you might need to be let out of these.” Julian smirked and walked up to Elim, capturing his chin between his index finger and his thumb, forcefully moving his gaze to his face instead.

“You’re being eager again, Elim,” he noted but did oblige. He removed his underpants and crawled up on the medibay, forcing the other to lay down beneath him, and washed himself over him like a wave, resting his warm body on top of Elim’s compliant, Cardassian-temperate body. He looked down at him. At the way Elim’s hair had lost its otherwise strict order, spreading around his head like a black halo, the expression on his face, the presence. The honesty of his body beneath Julian’s, their common undeniable desire manifesting between the both of them, melding together into heat. The way the light reflected in those blue eyes, giving them just a hint of a glimmer – Julian wanted to bring those eyes all the joy in the world. He’d die for those eyes.

In that moment, he was exactly as selfish as Tain had implied. He wanted Elim for himself. Julian, as he was now, Julian-not-Bashir, would destroy the Obsidian Order itself, if only it meant he could keep Elim forever. His tailor. His spy. His interrogator. He’d burn Cardassia to the ground, if it meant he could keep Elim. He’d never understood, prior to this, how love could breed evil, but he did now. He should have feared what he’d become, if only for this moment, but found that he rather enjoyed it.

His hips rocked slowly, to let the other get used to the situation, to the sensation, to being trapped. Tense at first, Garak relaxed and abandoned himself to the movement. Soon, he lifted his arms to hold to the edge of the bed above his head, leaving his chest unprotected and offered. Getting more daring, he followed his instinct and wrapped his legs around Julian’s hips to feel closer even. He looked at him, slight confusion passing in his eyes as strange thoughts passed through his mind. He wasn’t sure what more could, or should happen rather, and yet he wanted it. Parts of him wanted more – he really  _ was _ a virgin in this strange new first time. Julian noticed the confusion in his eyes and he decided to help him a little, by explaining.

“There are a number of things I could do to you, Elim,” he told calmly, like it was any of their casual lunch conversations, burying himself over the other’s chest, treating scales with the touch of his fingers, his lips, his breath, “We could continue like this, or I could go down on you, and pleasure you with my mouth. Or I could find some lube, so I can enter into you, or you into me,” he licked his lips, and then Elim’s left nipple, “I could use my fingers inside of you, if you’re just curious about what it feels like,” he found the Cardassian’s neck again, kissing him there, “I could turn you over, take you from behind – but I’d rather not,” he mumbled into his ear, “I’d rather see your face, your wonderful eyes – I could destroy the world for those eyes, the vulnerability in those eyes, the hidden treasures of those eyes…”

“And out of those ashes, I’d rebuild one for the darkness within yours, Julian,” he moaned to him. Whilst listening to the nearly medical explanation he’d tried focusing on what sensations the words triggered in him. His body reacted just as much and by the end of it he hugged Julian to keep him close whilst he confided to him those darker words – they echoed strongly in the Cardassian, fueling flames within. Quite suddenly, he grabbed him to kiss him, a hand locked behind his skull and the other exploring down the smoothness of his skin. For a second he thought of what he’d told Melekor about non-Cardassian physique. Lies.

“You are so good-looking,” his eyes flickered with hunger as he sat up, Julian riding his laps. “You  _ really _ are good-looking,” he insisted, feeling like he could eat him alive. Kind, still, he settled onto kissing  him some more; his lips, his neck, his chest. His hand found the way down Julian’s belly to touch his erection, getting moans out of him. As he laid fingers on the smooth skin, he understood why lube might be necessary – their anatomy down there was quite different in various regards. Elim was careful in his movements and attentive to his lover’s sounds and body language, in case the Human’s sensitivity might be different. The foreskin he found was an odd detail, but he quickly figured out ways to use it to pleasure his man. He grinned cunningly as he observed the effect of the soft torture on Julian’s face and his entire body.

“Get some lube,” he required in a lower voice as the other anchored himself to his neck ridges. “I want you close… As close as you can be…” he let the exact meaning up to his lover’s interpretation.

“You’ll have to let me go, first…” Julian said although he himself had a hard time letting go off Elim. The determination in the tailor’s voice was most intoxicating to him. The two of them... the things they could do together. The horrible things they could do. A genius healer and one of the Obsidian Order’s bests... why was he imagining  _ this _ now? Why did it arouse him so much?

At last, the doctor nestled himself out of Elim’s grip and out of the bed, walking over to a small cabinet at the other end of the room in which he found some medical gel in a pot. There, it would work just as well as lube (he knew, because of reasons). He sat on the bed again and removed the cap of the jar, showing it to Elim.

“It might be a bit cold, so I’ll warm it in my hands for a while before I treat you,” he said, suddenly sounding a lot like a doctor again. He took some in his left hand, put the pot away on the medical table, then, as he started treating the Cardassian’s slick erection with some of the soothing gel, Elim couldn’t help but wonder if Julian acted the same way with his flirts, playing doctor in kinky ways. That didn’t seem like anything improbable, and so he smiled with a bit of amusement. He let him do. As it turned out, the sensation wasn’t so cold as the young man made it sound and the application in itself was quite pleasant, really. The Cardassian relaxed and eased in, observing alternatively Julian and what he was doing to him, how his hand explored the anatomy – how the tip was somehow more pointy, how the member felt strong and straight inside but more soft and squirmy around, how it was oddly sleek and smooth in comparison to the rest of the scaly body, protruding out of soft, delicate lips, and how the discreet testes kept much closer body to retain more heat. At last Elim questioned him with the eyes, not entirely sure of how to proceed next. Again, it wasn’t that he’d never done such things, it rather was that he’d never done them with a non-Cardassian.

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you… You’re the doctor, that would be unfortunate.”

“If you do, I’ll tell you to stop,” Julian reassured him. “I hope you feel confident enough to do the same for me; I do not want to hurt you either; if I did, I don’t know who else I’d get to hem my pants. And if you’d rather, I can show on you how to do it, and then you can try on me?” Julian suggested, frowning a bit before continuing, “If there are to be other occasions for the two of us, which I hope…” he started delicately, “and you would want to try things that might be a bit outside of the norm, maybe even violent, there are such things as safewords. Are you familiar with the concept?” The Cardassian didn’t exactly hide his surprise.

“What I might be familiar with has a lot to do with violence and very little to do with sex,” he merely hinted. “But please, one thing at a time.” Who was eager and greedy now? “Indulge my insides with your carnal charms,” he grinned, lust flashing vividly in his eyes. Julian’s cheeks heated up a little as he realized Elim had just pretty much told him to shut up and get on with it.

“You’ll have to gag me, next time,” he joked as he wriggled himself in between Elim’s legs, lifting one of them over his shoulder so he could both start lubing him up and watch the effects of his fingers. He didn’t need to look at what he was doing, when he could look at Elim’s face. This invasion was welcome to the Cardassian. Very welcome. It didn’t seem to hurt and Elim decided he wasn’t disappointed about the absence of pain in any way – he’d had quite enough pain lately not to miss more. He grinned like a blissful cat and soon started to move with his lover. This kind of pressure wasn’t unfamiliar, but the Human heat inside him however was something new, strange and amazing, and he was eager for more of this sensation. For Julian. This was Elim and Julian’s moment. If someone decided to have a medical emergency requiring Doctor Bashir now, Garak would kill them.

“ _ Come in _ ,” he pleaded with his eyes. He wanted it, and he wanted his lover close to him again, as a warm blanket in this too-cold room. And so Julian leaned in over Elim like a shroud, one he could hug, fondle and kiss. One he could be weak underneath. The young man pulled his friend’s legs with him in the movement, teasing both of them with his hot member, so close to surrendering to the request, and his eyes locked in the other’s eyes. He dared to kiss him again, sultry and slow. How he adored those pleading eyes, how they beckoned to him, woke an urge within him to ravage what was his. He wasn’t sure when exactly, during the kiss, he’d finally indulged and pushed further, guiding himself in and entering, but every last touch all added up to a complete and singular sensation. He felt the flavours and wetness of Elim’s mouth with his tongue; an invasion that wasn’t so different from the embrace he claimed just a bit further down.

It’d been a long time since Elim had last been indulged in such odd yet welcome sensations, but he didn’t allow for memories to resurface, so to better abandon himself to the new situation. Up, down, through and through, Elim felt owned, desired, taken, and it didn’t scare him anymore. He wasn’t alone anymore, and Julian’s presence inside him made it known. He didn’t cling anymore; he simply held to his man, his dear doctor, trusting in him as Julian thrusted in him. Elim smiled, kissed him back, looked at him, breathing more slowly but deeply. It was happening. All of this was real. It should have felt unreal but it didn’t. It felt right, natural and good.

Soon the movements brought yet another layer of hoarseness to the respiration as Julian reached places triggering blissful sensations. Elim felt his body taking over him, but as electricity filled him, he still was unafraid. He trusted this wave of pleasure and darkness washing over him, he caressed his doctor’s back and his hair, his neck and his throat. He marveled – it was a restful, mesmerizing rhythm that came over them, a calm dictated by care rather than self-restraint. There  _ was  _ no desire to hurry, no need to feverishly chase for the moment that would etch Julian so deep into Elim’s mind that he’d wear the memory like a scar. The doctor abandoned Elim’s lips to let him breathe even better. He straightened up above him, wrapped his lover’s leg around his back and laid his hand against the other’s neck instead, caressing his scales, studying him with warmth, confidence, unconditional acceptance. He finally had the chance to heal Elim, heal the one he’d chased ever since he’d first met Garak. It had taken this long to get in under his scales, to find and satisfy a part of him that so badly needed someplace safe, some _ one _ safe. And someone he could dare to love. Elim smiled back at him, almost as if reading his thoughts. Or his feelings rather, maybe.

There would be other times, Elim promised himself. It mattered not when nor where it would happen, it would simply have to happen. This felt too good and profound to be the only time, and there was way too much to explore for this to be the only time. The tailor wanted his doctor to know him deeper, know him more than anyone else, more than Garak himself maybe. Obfuscation had its toll, and the Cardassian had been so many people that he sometimes wasn’t sure anymore of who he even was – Cardassia? Could it really be so? No, certainly not. No matter how manyfold he was, down to it, he knew he was still Elim, and the Agent had to accept it, just as Julian accepted him so fully. Somehow, the doctor could feel that sentiment, as if a part of his lover’s mind radiated through him – they were similar, weren’t they? Julian and Garak. They both had someone to protect inside of them. And Julian had taken Elim to his heart, a secret to be safe with him.

The young man increased the speed of his movement only slowly, his hand traveling from the Cardassian’s neck, to his chest, then down below, where he found sensitive skin, caressing him there, too, feeling the intricate patterns of his wet member, similar but alien compared to many other humanoids. Julian wasn’t sure which parts would be the most pleasurable to stimulate, so he tried them all, looking for any indication that he’d found the right spot – Elim hiccuped from pleasure when he did. There it was. The softer bit underneath his manhood, about in the middle of the outline, now bulging gently under the pulp of the doctor’s curious fingers. A moan escaped Elim, and soon another one, slightly louder. Meticulous in his examination, Julian soon found the most discreet shape of the now-hardened glans and the sensitivity of its sides. Elim’s neck twitched in a way only sexual pleasure could trigger, flushing darkly as lustful blood pulsed through him, and Julian took great pleasure in watching him surrender to his sweet torture, and moreso even, to his own body – the subtle twitches, the slow, snake-like squirming… the feelings painted in Elim’s face made it serene.

The Cardassian’s beauty made Julian too feel beautiful. But it was the sounds that escaped his lover that had Julian realize just how addicted he were to hearing the Cardassian’s voice; whether it was smug, arrogant, argumentative or soft... Although his curiosity for what Garak had to say was most real, Julian wondered if there weren’t times when he’d been more attentive to way the other spoke. The melody of his voice, the turn of sound... He had to wonder what his voice would sound like in Kardasi, without a translator. What did the Cardassian mother tongue sound like? Was their language melodic and cryptic, just like Garak? Or was it more like Elim? If it were, Julian could understand why the Obsidian Order existed at all – who wouldn’t want to sacrifice everything to make love to something so in need of protection?

But Julian’s thoughts soon diluted as he started losing his breath. He dug his fingers in that black mane, to bring more disorder to it. To awaken the beast he’d watched slumber, rocking against him, into him, more vigorously. He wasn’t holding back and neither was Elim, but they weren’t turning into some violent Klingons either; this was love, not war, and gentleness still lingered in their brutality. Groaning against the other’s cheek and ear, the Cardassian caught his lover in the neck and, suckling on the skin, left a mark there. The red flower turned blue and the gardener within Elim beamed at the bloom.

In the end, the doctor collapsed over Elim, a hand on each side of his skull, guttural sounds shaping in his throat as he kissed him, inhumane, like a bestial creature. Contained, controlled, but free to do to himself, to Elim, all of this. His reckless lust quickly contaminated his Cardassian lover, turning him into a saurian monster, writhing and squirming for more. Purring and hissing wyrm, Elim tightened himself around Julian and soon started to sign his belly in long translucid strokes as his manhood brushed over the soft skin. Rales of pleasure rose, untamed and undignified, yet all the more honest in the raw roughness of their sounds.

When it all calmed down at last, Julian was breathing against those lips laced with lies that could never satiate his thirst for more, and Elim laid astonished but blissful. Exhausted. They looked at each other and Elim laughed – tiredly but joyfully – and simply pulled the other closer to shield himself from the now biting cold of the room. He purred and kissed him, eyes closed to chase reality away for one more moment. Julian was still inside him and Elim wasn’t ready yet to let him go – not that the doctor intended to leave yet either. This moment was too unique and improbable to end already.

“Computer,” Julian’s voice crackled a little as he spoke, “increase temperature by-” he wasn’t sure how much he should increase it, “-fifteen degrees,” he decided, and the computer obliged, slowly adding warmth to the room, to level out with the cold air that Julian didn’t want on his skin, nor on Elim’s. He sighed, content. “Just a bit longer,” he mumbled to the other, “just a bit…” the room temperature laid over him like a blanket, and that, along with Garak’s hands weighing on him, was all the comfort he needed. The sleep deprivation was finally taking its toll on him; he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and it didn’t take long before he’d fallen asleep. Everything was so soft. Elim was everywhere around him. Julian was protected. And so was Jules.

When the tailor figured his lover had fallen asleep, he did… have a “now what” thought about the situation. Awareness was starting to dawn on him. The position, the total, complete absoluteness to explain it in any possible way other than the plain, simple and obvious evidence of what had very clearly happened. He glanced around, reviewing the medical devices, the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The doors. He looked at Julian, sleeping with the serenity of a newborn.

Oh, well. It was fine as it was. Elim didn’t have the strength left to care about anything else. And so, closing his eyes, he let himself join his lover in slumber.


	13. Day 10 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of self-harm || rough degradation sex

What Ywanna had had to tell him before she’d left on that new day morning, Melekor wasn’t exactly sure. Beyond the obvious meaning of her words, there was an underlying almost-threat; she had all but blackmailed him to let Timun go, as if he needed to be pressured to comply. She had also praised him. For almost dying. Told him that she was proud of what he’d become, and that she looked forward to aiding him in his continued growth. She’d asked him, again, to quit his phelenaxinide, speaking of it as if it were an addiction, as if it made him lesser. That’s when he’d gotten so pissy that he’d asked her to _make up her fucking mind – was she proud or not?_ His mother had decided that he’d been unduly rude. At least she’d left after she’d scolded him like the ungrateful little brat that she seemed to think he was.

There he’d been, up to his ears in humiliation – nearly thirty years old, and still scolded by his mother as if he were ten. The nurses had heard it too, but they had been nice enough to pretend they hadn’t. Melekor very much hoped that Garak, still in the next room with the doors open, had _actually_ gotten a good dose of his sedative, because if not, Melekor wasn’t sure he’d survive the embarrassment of having another Cardassian witness what he’d just been put under.

It had thus been very, very nice to leave the infirmary just a little after, around ten hours something. The nurses had even been nice enough to go get him the dark set of clothes from his quarters. It wasn’t his most usual wear, as it was more formal than what he normally liked, and less practical. The material, while pretty, was quite frail. He’d used to wear it to choir practice; the group had complied to the same dress code. Maniel had looked especially elegant in his, with his black hair slicked back and his smart, deep blue eyes in complete and utter harmony with the getup.

Melekor didn’t feel half as pretty.

 

“Yes?” purred Odo as he saw who had decided to pay him a visit, “Here to press charges, I assume?” he reached for the correct PADD to enter the charges into. Melekor shook his head.

“I’ve decided not to,” he told the Constable, “sorry,” he added at the other’s quite undeniable expression.

“Well, then,” he leaned back in his chair, “You are Ywanna Kel’s son,” he followed up, and Melekor nodded, stunned by the suddenness, “We have had serious complaints against her since she arrived on the station. Perhaps you’d care to share your view on her as a person?” Melekor paled a little – oh, right Savras…

“She is... very disciplined,” he explained with a bit of twitching, “very professional.”

“What about her telepathic abilities?” Odo continued casually. Melekor shrugged.

“Pretty good, I think? I wouldn’t know, really, I decided to take treatment against my own abilities very long ago, I haven’t been able to sense much of anything for years now,” he coughed a little. “Can we go let Mister Lykes out now?” he asked, hoping he could get away from this situation without causing further drama between himself and his mother.

“Of course,” Odo got up, “wait here.” Then he went into the arrest, to Timun’s cell, and deactivated the force field.

“You are free to go,” he admitted sourly, “your _friend_ has decided not to press charges.” Timun tried not to smile too much as he got up.

“Of course, let me gather my things,” he looked around and grabbed the pillow, which was the only thing left in the cell with him. “Actually I think this came from your replicator?” he then handed it to Odo once he came out of the cell. “While I do not look forward coming back in there, I thank you for the frugal hospitality. And if you… have some questions… someday… or feel like taking up some actions,” he turned more serious, “I would like to know.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Odo told him as he escorted him out from the room, delivering him to Melekor, who was standing exactly where he’d left him, his hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze up somewhere on the ceiling. The Cardassian flinched a little, suddenly, looking towards Timun. Why had his mother wanted him out so badly? Melekor had _such_ a bad feeling about all of this.

“I thought we might have something at Quark’s,” he suggested nonetheless, “for breakfast,” he specified, in case Timun had lost track of time.

“That would be very welcome,” both Timun and his stomach approved the idea. “No neck massage this time however,” he held up his index. “And, uhm, I might have things to tell you, I guess, but you probably already know, and it’s probably better that we eat something, _anything_ first,” he added as they walked out of the office. He hadn’t eaten a lot since his light dinner with Savras as the rations weren’t the most generous, surely to remind prisoners of what they were missing out due to their bad behavior or something. Melekor didn’t answer. In fact, he said nothing at all, walking further away from Timun than one would in a friend’s company. The Vulcan didn’t try to engage further in the discussion but through the cold silence, he noted that, in this moment, Melekor really was reminiscent of his mother – not that the Cardassian realized.

Only once they had climbed the stairs up to the second level of Quark’s and taken a table, did he look at Timun.

“ _First?_ ” he asked with a twitch at the corner of his left eye. With such a delay in the reaction, it took Timun a moment to be certain what Melekor was reacting to.

“If there’s as much distance in your reaction than in your attitude…” he muttered then cleared his voice and straightened up a bit, only to slouch over the table again, resting his elbows on it. “I’m a bit dizzy,” he said, waving at a waiter to take their orders. Himself requested a small serving of sem’hal stew, and Melekor ordered nothing but a single boiled egg, a pot of some sort of caviar and a glass of plain water. He wasn’t planning on trapping himself by the table with a large order, were he to have a fallout with Timun again.

“So, did your mother tell you what she asked me to do?” the Vulcan-Trill asked, starting to eat the sand peas in the small bowl on the table.

“If this has _anything_ to do with my mother, I’ll just up, leave and you won’t have to deal with my company ever again,” Melekor made his position clear, “I let you out of that cell because you saved my life. That is all there is to it.”

“So she didn’t tell you? That’s ...rude,” he came to the conclusion that Ywanna hadn’t even deigned to tell her own son about the deal she’d struck, and he looked at the sand pea he was holding as if it had some advice to provide him. “Well,” he sighed and raised his eyes up on Melekor, “I mean, with all due respect to her and you, this is all a bit… eh. Now I no longer know if I should tell you or not, that’s a bit embarrassing… and… sad, I guess. You two don’t seem to be on very good terms, right?” he tried to tread carefully with his words.

“No. We’re not. Not right now,” Melekor stated as if Timun should’ve understood that on his own. “What is it she’s asked you to do?” he continued to ask, even less pleased, “Does it involve me?”

“You’re sure you don’t want to press charges against-” he asked as he figured the other must still be mad at him after all, but interrupted himself as he looked at Melekor, opting to answer the question instead. “I think she wants to go to Cardassia with you and she wants me to train you in martial arts so you can defend yourself,” he said very quickly. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea; I’m not sure the Central Command would approve of visitors beating citizens, even in self-defense…” he pinched his lips tight, waiting for the angry reaction he predicted.

“But you are going to comply,” spoke a third voice – Melekor tore his eyes off of Timun to see his mother standing there, as if someone had just beamed her in.

“You can’t do this to me,” he answered back. Inside, he was fuming, outside he was cold, and when he felt her mind prodding into his, he closed up entirely.

“I can, and I will,” she pulled up a chair and sat down with the other two, “I’m the one who went to Cardassia, conceived a child, and came back. I know what it takes to survive there – you don’t. All my life, I’ve tried to prepare you for going back, but you have never done anything but to _resist_ and _scorn_ my attempts to-”

“ _Prepare me?!_ ” Melekor got to his feet, then had to sit down again as his mother grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down, glaring around her to tell him to keep his voice down, “You never _prepared_ me. You never taught me anything, never _told_ me anything -”

“That’s enough. Timun Lykes is going to be your teacher. You’ll comply because you don’t want to die, and he’ll comply, because he doesn’t want to end up a danger to the people around him,” she looked over at Timun, a meaningful look on her face – he looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand peas; he could feel her mind and tried to shield his own, “ _Sand peas, sand peas. Sand peas are pretty,_ ” he chanted in his mind, “ _Give me three, I’ll plant a tree. If I eat thee, I’ll be thirsty._ ” And round and round went the rhyme…

“I do believe we have an understanding,” Ywanna looked at them both. “If not, circumstances could always change to something far less favourable. For you. _Both_ of you.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Melekor in a strangled voice, still resisting his mother’s attempts to smash through his mental barriers.

“I mean that I still have contacts within Central Command,” she smiled sweetly, “...who owe me favours,” she leaned towards Timun, and took a sand pea, crunching on it – he looked at her like she just crushed the head of his pet rather than a sand pea. “It’d be a pity if both your requests for travel were delayed... wouldn’t it?” Melekor ignited at once, getting up, tipping over the chair this time. He didn’t want to say anything, nor to shout at her. Instead he just looked between her and Timun, like he hated the both of them. Then he stormed off, to lock himself in his room.

 _“Cardassian love is always of the tough variety,”_ she told Timun inside of his mind, _“He’ll come around eventually. Perhaps he’ll even enjoy his lessons. Now, tell me about the issues you’re having with your father? I might be able to help you_ .” He gasped as he realized how easily she seemed to have read the thoughts still lingering in the back of his mind. Had Timun’s skin been white, his cheeks would be green by now. Realizing that _she_ now could blackmail him with that too, he stared at her with profound terror.

 _“There is nothing you can do,”_ he blurbed telepathically, _“Nobody must know.”_ Yet, ideas were sprouting. Was he too lawful that he hadn’t considered melding with his own father to know what _he_ knew exactly? If there were proof, records, anything that could surface and fulfill his threat. Penetrating the mind of someone he hated this much _was_ repulsive as well, of course, on top of being illegal… But could illegality be fought efficiently with legal means?

 _“Someone else could do it for you,”_ Ywanna suggested, grinning a little. _“All it costs is a favor, and I already know what I’d ask. Melekor needs a new personal doctor, now that his previous one is dead. He would prefer a Cardassian doctor, I am sure, but I tend to think it will take him some time to get to Cardassia. His training must be finished first. And you... you so happen to have certain skills that would be useful to his needs.”_ There, the waiter came with the orders and she accepted the egg-with-eggs that the Ferengi brought to the table, eating them in Melekor’s stead. It was so typical of him to eat eggs with even more eggs; she’d always found it to be a particularly interesting quirk, considering Cardassians were quite fond of them. Timun on his behalf looked at the Cardassian dish in front of him for a floating moment.

 _“I told you before, I’m not a very good doctor. I only have the basic general training for Trillian medicine students, and the specialization courses in neurology and physical therapy, which I followed at the same time – I succeeded, yes, but I probably didn’t learn that well and…”_ he sighed and took a spoon of the food, which felt much less savory than he’d expected it to be as shock dulled his senses. _“I don’t think I would be skilled enough to warrant for your son’s life just like that. His condition is very peculiar, and_ **_if_ ** _I were skilled enough,”_ he squinted at her, _“then I should be paid a lot more for it. I can deal with my father on my own; the less people involved in this, the better for me.”_

 _“Keep family business within family,”_ Ywanna appreciated, _“but you see how vulnerable you are? From just this short a moment together, I know more about you than you ever wanted me to. Your defense is weak, and for someone who has so much to protect…_ ” she scraped some fish eggs onto her spoon, _“Sooner or later vulnerabilities get taken advantage of. It is why you need tutoring. I’ll help you – you have to convince Melekor to train with you._ _You surely understand that?”_

“I do,” he nodded, feeding his stomach some more. He didn’t like that she was right, and he didn’t like to be cornered in a dead end. _“But what if he doesn’t want? What if he refuses to train? It takes two to teach, and if he doesn’t want to learn, he’ll never go anywhere. I can’t create a will that doesn’t exist.”_

 _“Then you’ll beat him until he defends himself_ , _”_ Ywanna smiled sunnily and bit some of her egg, staring at Timun who clearly did not approve. He stirred his stew and looked up her black eyes again.

_“And how much did you exactly see?”_

“Oh, don’t worry Mister Lykes, I keep my secrets in a box of obsidian,” she chimed aloud almost sweetly, _“Which means, of course, I won’t share them even with those who know very well what they are.”_ She sighed in delight at this very positive situation and drank some water, _“I’ll be present during your training sessions – I give you a week to persuade him to start, and I’ll stay around the station and through your classes as a constant reminder to him, until I am entirely sure he’s going to comply_. _You can use that to motivate him too, I am sure it will prove quite efficient._ _The rest of the sessions, you can share telepathically with me. I’ll be performing regular check-ups on his progress,”_ she set the terms. “Remember, though, he’s _my_ son.”

“Are you certain he’s not your _pet?_ ” Timun dared to ask back. “You don’t ask him anything, you just impose what _you_ think is good for him regardless he wants it or not, and there you drag _me_ into your personal vendetta against fuck knows what awaits him on Cardassia… _I_ wanted to just get to know more about this society, these people, or maybe I was just fooling myself into believing this to give myself an unachievable goal that would keep me away from home for a long time… I never asked to get dragged into all that! I tried to be friends with your son, and you ask me to become his personal doctor _and_ trainer, and he’s going to _hate_ me for this! Why do you do this to us? Just because he’s your son doesn’t give you the right to treat him like that! And me even less!” he rebelled.

“My, my, Mister Lykes…” she kept on eating, unwavering, _“If you think this is bad, then Cardassia is not where you should go. Cardassia is the high seat of lies, plots, shadowplay, manipulation and blackmail,”_ she cared to inform him. “Maybe he will hate you, but he will thank you once it saves his life,” she lifted her glass to him, “as will I,” she emptied the glass. _“After all, you might be interested in the kind of justice I could offer you_.” He crossed both arms and legs to hold onto his anger, eating his food more aggressively despite the awkward position.

“And then he’ll hate me again as he does now. What a payment,” he snorted. _“And nothing warrants me that you will not keep on blackmailing me forever. I know how that works,”_ he glared at her. _“First you asked me to be his martial arts teacher, now you ask me to also be his doctor, and nothing tells me you won’t just ask me to sacrifice myself entirely for him. Your greed escalates quickly, Mrs Kel, and I don’t intend to go die on Cardassia for the darkness of your eyes, nor for Melekor, for all that matters. I doubt he wants this either.”_

 _“But_ _I’m not blackmailing you, Mister Lykes,”_ Ywanna chuckled a little and grabbed another sand pea, _“I’m merely alerting you of risks and offering to help you. Is it really so bad of me to ask for something in return?”_ she smiled sheepishly. “On Cardassia, _nothing_ is free. Maybe you should start getting used to that.” She shuffled her empty eggshell aside, _“I don’t deal in blackmail, only in exchange of favors. And I am keen to keep recurring customers. If you find yourself helped by the therapy I will guide you through, perhaps you’d be interested in more,”_ she suggested, then straightened up, staring at him with pitch black eyes that revealed no emotion. “One word of advice: do not attempt blackmail on Cardassia. They are too paranoid, you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Thank you for the advice,” he let go of his spoon and got up. “I’ll _think_ about what you said. Good day,” he shuffled his coat to be wrapped in it some more and strode away, fuming to himself and trying not to make plans to get out of this yet, lest she might figure them out already.

When he made it to the quarters, he could hear music through the door – _Sex Slave Symbiont_ . _Melekor…_ Timun groaned inwardly but prepared himself to enter, shielding his ears a bit before opening the door to make it in. He screamed at the computer to decrease the sound volume, but the computer denied the request. Twitching, the Vulcan yelled at the replicator for some hearing protection, and pressed the plugs into his ears. He could still hear the music, and it was still loud, but at least he no longer felt like his ears were about to start bleeding, and he could actually start to enjoy it. He’d never seen a live concert of that band (and whether or not lives ever happened for real was a topic of debate) but he’d attended a concert of _Joined in Filth_ , and he lingered in this memory for a moment, laying on the couch. It’d been the strangest concert, and as he thought of what Savras had told him, some things that had felt odd to him were starting to take a different coloration in his mind.

He ended his breakfast with a cup of replicated Raktajino (lukewarm, extra sweet, extra milk), sipping on it in this atmosphere, then started to stretch. He was going to train.

## * * *

Melekor stood at the window of the bedroom, staring out at the stars, and at his own reflection. When he saw himself only in the corner of his eyes, he nearly managed to imagine it was Maniel, transparent as a ghost. The fantasy would’ve been something to indulge in, if it didn’t make him miss his friend, and so eventually, he retreated to the bed. There, he sat, uselessly looking ahead of him.

How dared she? All his life, he’d been trying to get her to take him to Cardassia, and now, when he’d done all the work himself to get there, she turned up to destroy it all. She’d blackmail his father, she’d delay his application at the Bureau of Alien Affairs – block it entirely, if she found he didn’t do exactly as she wanted. It was over. It was over before it had even started. He’d never get rid of her – it wasn’t even as if he hated her. He didn’t, he couldn’t. He loved her. Why did he keep on loving her?

Frustrated he got to his feet and opened his pack, searched through it for something sharp to drive away the frustration with, but there was nothing. He found himself wondering whether Garak still had some of the triptacederine. Or if Quark could obtain more. He’d have to ask either of them.

As the music wasn’t helping him calm down this time, he shut it off, finally exiting his quarters, just in time to spot Timun, seemingly wearing some sort of hearing protection. Then, he felt sorry for doing this to him again, until he remembered Timun was working for his mother now. He never _could_ have a friend entirely to himself. She’d always steal them, charm them somehow. Even Savras had fallen victim to that, until she unwittingly woke the dragon and made herself into a persona non grata.

He watched the Vulcan in silence, waiting for him to see him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to him, other than _sorry_ perhaps. Timun did notice him but kept on training, closing his eyes to better ignore his presence until he felt like he could look at him without wanting to beat him. After all, it wasn’t his fault if his mother was like she was, just like it wasn’t Timun’s fault if his father was like he was as well.

When he stopped at last, he stared at the other, taking his breath for a moment. Then he removed the hearing protections. There was still anger in his eyes, but he didn’t want to express it. Still, he needed to ask one first thing.

“I warned you against my father, I told you what a manipulative asshole he is… Why didn’t you tell me the same about your mother? What the heck is wrong with her!?” he clenched his fists. He felt somewhat drained, empty and full at the same time, and like he could use a shower now that he got himself a bit sweaty. The Cardassian instantly saw the opportunity in the Vulcan’s mood – Timun might as well be the blade Melekor hadn’t found, and the engineer’s rather sore state flipped from apathetic to incensed in matter of seconds.

“Oh, I see how it is, I’m not allowed to talk shit about your mother, but you’re allowed to badmouth mine,” he scowled at Timun, walking towards him with clenched fists, “Take it back.” Timun twitched some more.

“I was fine with her until she read my deepest secrets and started to blackmail me! As if I didn’t have enough with my own father on that case! I… I just wanted to be your friend, not your teacher and not your _doctor!_ And fuck knows what more she’ll ask me next!” He squatted down, holding his head and suddenly beat the ground with a cry of frustration. He rained several more blows to steam off, landing the last one on his left hand set flat on the floor so the pain would help him bounce off the anger. The cry that escaped him this time was one of pain, and he held the hurt back of his hand tight against his mouth with some more muffled sounds.

“Maybe _your_ mother should have taught you to better shield your mind and _especially_ your secrets,” Melekor answered coldly as he watched the passionate display in front of him, “It’s the single most basic part of mental training, after all. To think she’d overlook something so important. But no, of course it’s _my_ mother who is at fault.”

“She _tried_ ,” Timun hissed. “I _sucked_ , is all.” He gulped down. He was a failure, that was what he was, and those who had use for him were all assholes. Why couldn’t he just live a normal life, quiet, simple, without his idiot father messing around all the damn fucking time? He sighed. He was upset, cornered, and he felt like crying, but not like being seen like that. “I’m sorry… I guess I’m just not good enough to be around you.”

“I’m not exactly in the right state of mind to care about anyone right now,” Melekor admitted as things didn’t turn out the way he planned to, “I want to feel sorry for you, but I can’t. I didn’t want to hurt you,” he explained, “I wanted you to hurt _me_.” Shocked confusion washed on Timun’s face.

“You _just_ got out of the infirmary and you want me to beat you?” he strode forth, forcing the other to back off, “You’re _messing_ with me just to… to…” They’d closed the distance to the wall and Timun pinned the Cardassian against it, green eyes darkening. “Are you _certain_ ,” he punched the wall next to Melekor’s head, “that _this_ is what you want? If you’re trying to manipulate me too, I swear…”

“Don’t we all manipulate each other constantly?” the engineer asked back aggressively, “Isn’t that what life is about?”

“You really want to be a _Cardassian,_ don’t you?” Timun’s hand swung before he could hold it back and lit Melekor’s left cheek on fire – the Vulcan regretted his move instantly but as the other only smirked, it did nothing to calm the anger. He did not take this behavior kindly and closed his fist on the other’s collar. “And is that a Cardassian thing too, to want to be hurt? What’s in for you, Melekor? Does that make you high?” his fingers locked underneath the jaw, not strangling him but instead lifting it until the young man was on his toes – Melekor held onto the arm but didn’t actually try to get free. Timun squinted at that. “What are you? A pain slut like in those songs you like? Or just yet another mess who feels so fucking worthless he needs to get beaten to excuse his being alive?” He dropped him, letting him cough from the unpleasant stretch, but not letting him go. “ _What_ are you, Melekor?”

“You sure like binaries, don’t you?” the younger man croaked at him, the implicit answer laying somewhere in between the possibilities Timun mentioned, but too subtle for the Vulcan to figure out.

“It’s up to you to give your answer, you dolt,” he snarked instead. “It’s an open question but now you know what you look like to me when you’re like that. Not that I _would_ mind… If you enjoy blows, I have many to give. _Always_ ,” he offered both as a warning and genuine promise.

“Then, by all means, enjoy yourself,” Melekor grunted. “What you think is what I am. Both. Maybe more.” Timun blinked at that.

“A pain slut and a mess?” he winced in disbelief. “Are you _serious?_ ” he asked, slightly puzzled. His right hand held the hair firmly, but the left one brushed the Cardassian’s cheek gently, to inspect the bruise forming there, a brownish black rather than blue. “I… know of such things…” he added. “But I’ve never met someone actually into them…”

“Conditioning,” Melekor answered simply, flattered by the way the other inspected the damage he’d done. “You can condition yourself to enjoy it – the pain. I guess it’s true that it’s rare that people would do that, but they most certainly exist.”

“Who decided to start this conditioning?” Timun asked, letting his hand creep into the disordered black hair. In someone else, he would have assumed this conditioning to come from a desire to fulfill a kink or an ideal. In Melekor, he wasn’t as sure. The mess and submission did add another layer to the Cardassian’s character, one Timun couldn’t help but want to explore somehow. He had the instinct to care, and what disturbing story Melekor had to tell fueled his empathy with twigs of horrified concern.

“Lemia Ryx,” the Cardassian allowed himself to close his eyes, to better let memories resurface, “she had two friends, much larger than me. They’d beat me up, call me names, racist names,” he smiled as sheepishly as he’d once had. “I thought I deserved it, that it was normal. I didn’t understand them, nor anyone else. Every day after school was done, they’d take me to the shed where the toys were kept, and they’d spit on me, beat me. My day wasn’t complete if they forgot my treatment. I’d tell them to do it to me, if I thought they’d forget to,” he opened his eyes again. “I had no idea I was being abused. I didn’t enjoy it, mind, I was just an awkward child with no social skills. When my mother found out, she had me moved to another class. She told me to get allies there, told me not to accept this kind of treatment. And then she started helping me prepare, in case it would happen again. It was innocent, Timun. Don’t think poorly of her, just because she helped me.”

“She conditioned you to enjoy pain when you were just a child…” Timun murmured, unsure as to what sort of mother would do this to _her son_. Ywanna truly was terrifying, but he didn’t comment, focusing on Melekor – the scales around his eyes especially held his attention. He had a beautiful voice, fit for telling such tales so casually and make them into an entrancing monotone. “And she’s helping you now too?” he asked. “Did she help you or did she make you? Built you?” He scraped his nails against the Cardassian’s skull to adjust his grip on the jet hair, now messing it more than reordering it.

“No,” Melekor admitted with an honesty that was deep as the black ocean of his eyes, “she’s killing me,” he looked up at Timun, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, “maybe I’ll even die for her. It’s not as if there’s much in the world for me, is there?”

“Suffering?” Timun suggested. “I thought you liked pain?” He raised up his hand again, as to illustrate his words and the other presented his face, black eyes beckoning the violence. The doctor hesitated, then granted it with a sudden smack. Dark blood pearled on Melekor’s bottom lip, tar-like, as if the darkness of his eyes leaked a sinful tear through his mouth. This attention mixed with roughness sent chills down the Cardassian’s neckscales and spine, settling somewhere inside his back. The pain was nearly sexual. Maybe even the prequel to sexual.

“You and your mother,” Timun spoke again, gently wiping the blood off the other’s lip, “Both of you sound like you’re ready to die for the other, and both of you seem to sacrifice each other for… I don’t even know what,” he shook his head a bit, trying to understand in vain. “I don’t get it… Surely there has to be a way, there has to be something to fix this.” He rubbed his fingers together to dry the blood before touching Melekor’s chest. Feeling through the clothes, he followed the line from the diamond shape under the collarbones to the solar plexus. He stopped two knuckles there, and pressed them just hard to cause pain without further damage, to observe the reaction from the nerve pressure – Melekor’s eyelids fluttered like wings of a butterfly, and he let out a short gasp, a very subtle wrinkle forming at his forehead. He continued on to take a series of very small breaths, his fingers forming into claws as he took hold of Timun’s wrist with his right hand, mostly to steady himself. The Vulcan couldn’t help but find his expressions to be quite sexy and a little bit arousing.

“I’m a Cardassian,” Melekor wheezed through the pain, “and she is my mother.” He could only explain his part of the truth. What motivated her, he couldn’t know. “Fuck…” he pressed himself harder against Timun’s knuckles.

“Is pain the only thing that’s holding you together, Melekor?” Timun asked, tearing his fingers away from the nerve to follow the shape of the ribs ...and press them in between the bones, stealing a long whimpering sound from him. His left hand let go of the hair to explore the back of the neck, carefully, attentive to what nerves and bones laid there. The brushing of his arm over the neck scales induced bodily responses that Melekor hadn’t expected to possibly feel, least of all in a situation like this with some Vulcan-Trill guy he hardly knew. Slowly, he lifted his hands to hold onto Timun’s shoulders, breathing through his mouth, leaning forward a little. His hair fell in front of his face like a curtain. It was unreal, the heat that was growing in his legs, his belly, his groin; the tension… It was getting unbearably pleasant in its tormenting pain.

“I don’t know anymore,” he finally answered, his voice ragged and hoarse, “insult me, please.” The fire in his voice spread down Timun’s pants at once and his right hand slid back up to the throat.

“ _Painslut,_ ” he hissed, nearing the other’s face. “A greedy whore is what you are, Melekor,” he moaned and grabbed his jaw, capturing the Cardassian’s bottom lip between his thumb and his index and pressing it to make it bleed further – uncharacteristically horny, Melekor  wanted to kiss him, suck on his fingers, eat his words – he wasn’t even sure why.

“You dirty scaleskin…” Timun continued, drawing inspiration from songs they both enjoyed, “You’re nothing. Nothing but a pants’ snake starving for sex, a fucktoy in becoming – I’ll fist-fuck your throat ’till you can’t even hiss.” His left hand dropped down the neck, riding the scales to pinch the muscles right below the edge, where they were the thinnest, making Melekor both tremble and sink further down to the floor.

“You’re such a slutty slut, a naughty little shit. You’re so greedy, my dear, that you’ll come dry before you’re done begging for your release.” Timun was close, very close, breathing those words into the other’s mouth without touching him but with the warmth of this air woven into swears. Their feelings were starting to intermingle as Melekor vaguely realized he still hadn’t taken the phelenaxinide shot he was supposed to.

“You’re such a fucked up brat, horny like that,” Timun licked his cheek, “You’re such a messy whore ready for more,” he hoarsely purred near his ear.

 _“I’m_ **_your_ ** _whore,”_ Melekor agreed, fumbling inside the other’s mind. Sweat pearled on Timun’s skin, prickling a bit. He pinned Melekor on the floor, careful with his head still, and looked at him, at the obvious desire in his pants. He wanted to stroke his own erection against it, tear off the clothes separating them and indulge in turning many nasty thoughts into many nasty acts. His body vibrated as he held back, not throwing himself onto the other yet, though his hips twitched in a slow and chaotic wave.

 _“I’ll give you more,”_ the Vulcan echoed, but had to ask, _“Won’t you regret it?”_

 _“Abuse me, give in, take me_ ,” Melekor whispered into the other’s mind, daring him, provoking him, “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Fuck me like you hate me, hurt me like you love me,” he chuckled. He wasn’t impervious to the effects of his own words, his personal poison.

Timun panted and nervously bit and licked his lips to cope with his need to taste the other some more. His hands weren’t as patient however. The right one had gone to tease the other side of Melekor’s neck, and the left one searched for an opening in the clothes to expose skin and flesh.

“Mel…” the name came more like a dry sound as he fell onto the other like a panther on her prey. Mouth to the neck, he bit and suckled, knowing very well what he was doing to him this time, and enjoying it all the more. _“I’m going to hurt you so much, you slutty cunt,”_ he roared mentally. He fumbled with the clothes to expose his mate’s torso and explore it more closely with his nose, his lips and his tongue. _“Little shit of a Cardassian whore,”_ he diligently kept on with the dirty talking, _“I’ll chain you up as my personal fucktoy, I’ll tear you down inside and out. You’ll no longer be known as Melekor; I’ll strip you off of all that, my boy, I’ll tear you down inside and out,”_ he weaved the words in a palette of promises while pulling down the young man’s pants and underwear, letting him claw uselessly at the floor. He took several seconds to just stare at the Cardassian’s unveiled dick, appreciating the anatomical resemblances and disparities, and touched it with his fingers to feel the smooth texture and icky moisture of arousal.

“Slickstick,” he snorted and grinned. _“That’s what I’ll call you now,”_ he grabbed the  other’s hands to force him into a sitting position, and guided them to his erection. “Stroke yourself, slickstick,” he ordered. _“I’ll be back shortly,”_ he got up and walked to the table to pick the hypospray he’d gotten for his date with Savras. It’d still serve in the end. He shot himself while walking back to Melekor who had turned more shy in his vulnerable obedience. The cold nozzle of the hypospray made him jolt to the side, nearly losing balance, and he looked up at Timun.

“Mere precaution against STDs,” the doctor informed him.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted to Timun with a tonation that very clearly carried across as shy and a bit intimidated, “I still want you to destroy me. I don’t want mercy.”

“We’re going to discover you together then,” the older one kneeled and started to open his pants. Then changed his mind and stopped. He looked at the Cardassian. “Do it for me, slickstick. Free my dick,” he ordered. Melekor opened his mouth a couple of times, then swallowed, getting on all four and crawling over to Timun, where he knelt, and started doing as he was told. His hands felt clumsy, but thankfully, the other’s pants weren’t especially complicated to undo, and he soon managed to remove the fabrics enough that the other’s full erection was out of his pants.

He looked up at Timun, his eyes quite wide, then he swallowed again and looked back down, slowly removing his hands from the fabric there, instead laying them against Timun’s waist, sliding them up over his chest as he moved to follow his hands, closer, until their chests were touching and their breathing intermingled.

 _“What more do you wish?”_ – Timun shivered at the closeness and let his fingers flutter up to Melekor’s neck, then seized his face more roughly.

 _“You’ve never even kissed, have you?”_ he brushed his lips against his and finally tasted the blood on them. He grabbed the other’s hair again, pulling it, and pinched his neck to make him flinch and contrast with the softness of his kiss. _“Lick my tongue, lick my lips, Mel,”_ he guided him, _“Try to tame me, gently… Tease me into invading you.”_ Playful, he caught Melekor’s tongue to suckle on it. The Cardassian moaned into the kiss, his hands leading up to Timun’s hairline at the back of his neck, burying themselves in the soft mess. He wondered, absently, if it would have been like this, to kiss Arkadyen. Probably not. He wished he could’ve known.

 _“Take advantage of me,”_ he instead purred into the other’s mind, still keeping his innocence in his body language, _“corrupt me, brainwash me, turn me into your thing, your fucktoy, abuse me, hit me, punish me,”_ he licked the other’s lips softly, parting away just a little, to shyly look down at Timun’s lips. Such wishes… Timun wasn’t going to turn them away, though, and smacked the boy’s bruised cheek again.

“Come, slut,” he got up at once and didn’t wait for the other to do the same, dragging him by the hair. He led the both of them to the couch, forcing Mel to kneel in front of it. He carelessly pressed the Cardassian’s face into the cushion, meeting no resistance from him, and lifted his shirt over his back to expose the nakedness of his rear. He laid a hungry hand on the pale buttocks, feeling them possessively and indecently.

 _“You know what’s coming, dirty boy,”_ he explored his crack and teased the nerves of his entrance. Then smacked his ass. The noise was satisfying, the flinching too. _“Shh, little whiny bastard, it’s alright, it’s-”_ he spanked again- _“good, very good. Too good for you maybe?_ ” He slammed harder, smirking as he got a muffled humph out of him. “You like it way too much,” Timun concluded as an excuse to start smacking at a faster pace, firing up the skin until it turned a darker shade of flesh.

He held his hair to force him to stay bent at first, but eventually brought him up to see the expressions of his face. The mess he was turning him into. That Melekor held himself to his arm was most pleasant, a sweet contrast to the language he spoke in his mind.

 _“You Cardassian fucks like slaves, hm? There you go, sex slave, fucktoy, little bitch, spankwhore,”_ he kept on insulting him. He didn’t stop before the Cardassian started to really try to escape – not that it happened because the pain was too much; such was hardly possible for Melekor. No, he simply yearned for change. He found himself wishing to kiss him. His lips, his tongue, his cock, the one he was going to violate him with. He blinked his tears away and sniffled, turning his head sidewise a little to blink at Timun.

“Use me,” he begged, then closed his eyes, “hurt me, fuck me, save me from the pain I feel, deliver me from this torment into the depths of hell, fuck me like it’s torture,” he smiled – the words sounded better said out loud. Timun snorted as part of his act. He threw him on the couch and climbed on it too, facing him as he stood with one knee on each side of Melekor’s legs. The Cardassian looked small and frail as the half-Vulcan pinned him into the backrest. Holding his hair with a hand, forcing his jaw open with the other, he groaned as he pressed his slick malehood into the young man’s mouth.

“Suck like your life depend on it, slutty kid, because it does,” he commanded and started to rock his hips, moaning for his own pleasure. “Computer,” he smiled, “play the album _Symbiotonic_ by _Joined in Filth_ , track 6, _Sex Pocket_ ,” he required. He’d hesitated with track 5, ‘ _Swallow My Scum,_ ’ but figured that that one would have been too political for the current mood.

The bass line of a heartbeat filled the room, soon smashed by a more aggressive beat and crashing bass. Timun let it all resonate through his body and synchronized the rocking of his hips with the music. Melekor couldn’t have hoped for a more blissful experience.

 

_“I have a worm in my belly, it fucks me up, I suck it up,_

_I have a slug inside my mouth, it licks you up, I suck you down,_

_I have a snake inside my pants, you suck it all, I fuck you deep,_

 

_You want to get in my sex pocket, I want you too in my sex pocket_

_They say pockets are not for sex, But they can’t take the fun away,_

_I put you whole in my S pocket, Let’s do the fuck in my S pocket_

_They call it my S pocket, I call it sex pocket – S pocket. Sex pocket_

 

_Let’s do the fuck in my sex pocket, Party hard in my sex pocket”_

 

Timun _digged_ that song (as much as he dug himself into Melekor), and needless to say, he’d been part of the many kinksters who tried to play with those pockets. As he moved in rhythm with the song, he lifted his top enough to uncover the thin ridge on his belly and stroke the edge of it before slipping his thumb inside to caress the elastic skin of his pouch from both sides.

Underneath, the Cardassian’s throat burned, his jaw seared with pain, his eyes were flooding with tears. He would’ve whimpered and whined, hadn’t the welcomed the other’s cock so deep that it suffocated each and every sound, absorbing them – and his own dick felt unbearably hot too. Slick, wet, enduring its own helplessly untouched state.

“Computer, continue album playback,” Timun grinned as the song neared its end. He removed himself from Melekor’s mouth, letting him recover more normal breathing, and looked at him with satisfaction and dark eyes shining with cruel intents – the Vulcan wasn’t feeling this sadistic inside, but he could pull a show. He’d had acting classes after all.

“Messy slut,” he touched the Cardassian’s face and pressed his fingers on the bruises to revive the pain of them. “A good fuckpuppet is all you really are.” He moved back from the couch to flip the other and get him onto his knees, presenting his ass again. Timun grabbed his dick to check the degree of lubrication and lube his fingers some, before pressing them between the young man’s buttocks, smearing him with those invasive fingers shortly before guiding his erection through the tight hole.

“Enjoy the pain, sexdoll,” he warned before thrusting himself all the way in, in a slow, even push. Melekor gasped from the pain, although it shifted in pleasure near instantly. He hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t this – not that the surprise was a bad one. When they said it burned, he’d thought it was an euphemism of some description, but it was quite literal. At first, he tried to move away, pure reflexes at work, then he’d closed his eyes hard, clinging to the backrest of the couch, forgetting to breathe, hissing. Groaning. Listening and enjoying as the song ‘ _Care for what you wish for_ ’ filled the room, the lyrics surrounding them like a sinful embrace.

 

_“Care for what your wish for, for wishes do come true,_

_Careful what you take in, for it can fuck you through,_

 

_Why’d you need a symb inside you, when you can have my dick?_

_I promise you, sex babe, I can mess you up as much,_

_Pass your burning ring on my eleventh finger,_

_We’ll join as one, sex babe, I’ll make you reborn, oh~_

 

_Care for what your wish for, for wishes do come true,_

_Careful what you take in, for it can fuck you through,_

 

_And I care for you,_

_Oh, I care to fuck you”_

 

As he rocked inside his partner, Timun was glad his arousal had turned into such wetness. Melekor was tight. So tight. It must hurt like hell for the boy, and the Vulcan felt a bit high over the flippant worry he’d never had such rough sex with a complete virgin. Things turned even more surreal when Melekor’s voice echoed in his mind with a request he would never have imagined to hear.

 _“Dislocate my shoulder,”_ Melekor asked of him, _“pull me up and dip your poison in my ear,_ **_speak_ ** _to me.”_

For a second, Timun thought to stop everything, but soaked in the other’s mind as he was, he _felt_ the pleasure he derived from pain. And high on it too, he complied, knowing he was perfectly capable to mend what he was about to break. Yet, he first stabbed his back with a finger above the kidney to make him jolt and arch up, and feel the pain shift into pleasure, as to reassure himself that what he was about to do wouldn’t lead to tragedy. It was barely believable how good it made Melekor feel.

Taking a deeper breath, he caught the Cardassian’s left arm and yanked it, twisting it before beating to cause pain in the muscle as a prequel to that of dislocating the shoulder joint. Melekor let out screams of pain at each and every of Timun’s moves – the sound of his own body taking the abuse, the cracking, popping sound when his shoulder dislocated, and then again, when Timun, high on the pleasure they shared, served the other arm a similar treatment and held them crossed in Melekor’s back.

“You helpless whore, you’re a broken puppet now,” he spoke in rhythm with his thrusts, pressing himself against the other’s back to moan into his ear. He stroked his throat and his chin against the neck scales, licked them, bit them too. And moaned and groaned his pleasure. “I’m raping your sorry ass, Mel… I’m fucking you, invading you, and there’s nothing you can do about it because you’re so fucking weak. You’re such a lil slutty cunt, boy… You’re my fuckdoll, my sex slave,” he slid his right arm under the other’s torso and went up to collar his throat with his hand. “I’m everywhere,” he licked his ear, “You can’t escape me…”

The sexual violence, the psychological violence, all of it came together like perfection. Timun was like a god to Melekor, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he leaned into the words he spoke. Took them into him. With each thrust of Timun’s fucking, the bones in his shoulders scraped against areas they weren’t meant for, enhancing, entrancing. Melekor was breaking, truly breaking, tears were flowing from his eyes, along with sobs heavy enough to shake his entire body. But he still felt bliss – he kept on enveloping Timun’s mind in that bliss, sharing it with him. He could learn to worship this rush.

Several more screams left him as Timun suckled on his neck while pounding his ass and stabbing his mind with crazed insults, _“Whore, fucktoy, cumbag, lil prick, slickstick, painslut...”_ – Melekor didn’t care to muffle his sounds and Timun joined in the loudness when he filled him. The Cardassian felt his cum, hot and slick, how it ended up inside of him, outside of him, dripping and drizzling down over his own parts. Himself didn’t last very long after that, staining the sofa’s backrest with translucid fluids.

For a moment of frozen time, they hovered in fleeting, confused ecstasy. Melekor was shivering and crying, still sobbing. He felt so weak, so good. A smile settled on his lips as he shielded his mind again. Who had abused who, in this situation? Who was the tool, who was the master? Melekor was sure, that he was the master, and Timun merely his tool. After he’d removed himself, the Vulcan-Trill turned him around and half-sat him, half-laid him in the couch, careful not to cause too much further pain. He looked at him, looked at what he’d done, not yet realizing it all entirely. Silently but confidently, he kneeled and kissed his cheek before washing down onto him to lick the splatters of cum on his belly like a cat grooming her young and Melekor let him do, appreciating the proof of his superiority – such acts were purely submissive, weren’t they? Exhausted, he grinned but slightly as he watched Timun suckling what hardness was left in his cock to be certain to finish him before the organ returned to the protection of body’s insides. The act soothed the Vulcan somehow, though his eyes bore a different darkness as he looked up the other.

“Do you feel _better_ now?” he asked at last as he rose up again to examine his friend. “That’s rather nasty… but nothing I can’t mend with the appropriate tools. If you can give me a second, I’ll get the rods I have and replicate them.”

“Yes, thank you,” Melekor approved in a broken voice. “Ah, Lykes,” he craned his head a bit to see wherever the other was disappearing to, “If I may be so bold as to ask you to administer my phelenaxinide; I should’ve taken a shot hours ago. The infirmary fucked up my schedule, and I think if I don’t get it soon, I’ll start hallucinating spiders everywhere. And I really _do_ hate spiders.”

“I bet you do, I’ve _seen_ them,” Timun smiled before disappearing in his room. “Come to think of it,” he continued while searching through his bag, “I’ve never been so deep into anyone. I’ve had telepathic sex before,” he soon resurfaced with the rods and his dermal regenerator, “but that meld was something else… You’ll need to teach me how to block my mind before your mother forcefully starts _teaching_ me if you don’t want her to know about this,” he winced while inserting the first rod in the replicator.

“ _This program cannot be replicated. Please enter medical license matricule,_ ” the computer required and Timun hissed through his teeth as he tried to recall the code he hadn’t used in some… ten? Twelve years? He entered a first one, which was denied, then another one. On the third try, the computer spoke again, “ _Order of medical device replication was successfully reported to infirmary and security. Please stand by._ ” Timun looked at the machine with profound horror and mild panic before removing the rod and turning to Melekor in bit of a hurry.

“You need pants.” Melekor couldn’t help his laughter – that was just _too_ hilarious. Not that he wanted to get whisked away by Odo, or some such, in his current state, but he had to admit the turn of events was especially unfortunate.

“You dislocated my shoulders, I’m not sure I _can_ put any pants on, and at any rate,” he turned his head even more backwards, “I would like a sonic shower, _and my phelenaxinide_ , before you take me anywhere I don’t want to be. Be a dear, will you?”

“But of course, _love_ ,” Timun smirked. He went to fetch the hypospray first and delivered the dosage. “I’ll put your shoulders back in place, but you’ll still need medical care to ensure proper healing,” he warned before doing so – he didn’t dare to bring up yet the fact that he found it alarming that Melekor were capable of enjoying pain this much. Instead, he turned the dermal regenerator online to care for the bruises.

“And here I was, thinking you might show off your handiwork,” Melekor nearly purred, “Did you not do this to make me beautiful? Unless me, being a Cardassian, condemns me to be nothing but an ugly slut to use, repair and re-use at your leisure.”

“You were already handsome before I laid hands on you, Mel,” Timun refrained the smile on his lips but not in his malicious eyes. He was blushing again, and once more thankful for his dark pigmentation. “All I can take credit for is transcending you into a different kind of beauty, a bruised flower. It’s not so much, just a bit of paint on a craft that was already perfect. Didn’t I tell you before already that I like you? That you’re attractive?” he looked at him with attention, tracing the shape of the scale around the Cardassian’s right eye. “You’re handsome. I like those scales, especially those ones,” he caressed the ones on the cheek. “I like all the small details that make you so very unique as a member of your species. You’re ...really beautiful,” he murmured, at loss for other words. “But I suppose being one of a kind, alone, mustn’t have been easy. But now you have ...Garak,” he didn’t dare to consider himself as a reason for Melekor  not to be alone. Just because he was a half-breed too didn’t imply anything such. They’d fucked, yes. Then what? It didn’t warrant anything. And in a way, that hurt a bit.

Melekor however refused Timun’s kind words, writing them off as patronising and got simply upset at the mention of Garak. He couldn’t _believe_ the audacity of Timun’s idea – that Melekor would have such desires for someone like Garak...! The tailor was smart, beautiful, brilliant, well-spoken and talented. Melekor needed him as a Cardassian, not as a lover, anyway.

“Is there any point to this useless emotional drivel?” he asked harshly, opening his eyes to glare at Timun, “Is there?” The Vulcan stared at him, not understanding the sudden harshness. In just a second, the discussion derailed into an argument, which Melekor had to cut short as the heat threatened to turn him on for reasons laying way beyond his comprehension.

They barely had the time to get clean and vaguely dressed before Bajoran security officers came in. Timun tried to persuade them that he’d only tried to give the Cardassian a little training in Galeo-Manada when he hurt him by mistake. His argument might have been a bit stronger, if it hadn’t been for the prior accident, _the very vulgar music_ that was still beating the crap out of the air and the dubious stains on the couch. Neither of the two guards seemed very impressed with his attempt.

“Computer, cease music playback,” said the taller of the two men, a hand on his phaser, “You’re both coming along to the infirmary,” he instructed, without much humor – Melekor groaned in the background – “and then _you_ ,” he pointed at Timun, “will have a chat with station security. Your medical programs will be confiscated and returned to you at such a time that your status as a doctor can be confirmed by Bajoran jurisdiction or Starfleet Command.” He held out his hand, “Your data rod, please.”

## * * *

And so, Timun was back to detention and Melekor couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry. He hadn’t meant to get him in such trouble. Nor had he meant himself to end up at the infirmary again – “You certainly love this place, but this isn’t a very healthy relationship to further,” Jabara tried to joke although she was concerned. When she asked how her patient got _both_ his shoulders dislocated, “Luck” was what he answered. “Of a not so good variety,” he specified, refusing to be more explicit over the causes.

The nurse sighed and just treated him. She only turned to look back behind her when she heard the door of the medibay open and close. Her other Cardassian patient had dressed with his civilian clothes and she nearly escaped a swear as she saw him trying to sneak his way out of sickbay.

“I think I have spent way enough time here, I feel perfectly fine and you seem to have someone else to…” Garak made a face as he noticed who was there again. “Who did this to him?” he turned serious and approached. Melekor had _not_ wanted Garak to see him like this, but what was done, was done. He smiled the kind of smile that would be impossible for a normal person to do in his situation.

“Why, you look like you’re doing a lot better; I’m pleased,” he chirped, steadying himself up on one of his shoulders joints, ignoring the very audible sound it made as he moved, “As for me, it’s just a scratch, it looks much worse than it is, I assure you.”

“Mister Kel, please!” Jabara stared at him in disbelief – those Cardassians had plotted to drive her crazy. “I am not done with you, don’t do this! It must be extremely painful! Did you take any analgesics??” she asked in confusion as she started working on his right shoulder again.

“Analg-what?” he wondered, then squinted, “Come to think of it, he _did_ inject me with something, but I don’t remember what it was, ST something. STE or some such,” he chuckled and shrugged. While Jabara tried to figure what substance STE might be, Garak stepped closer, concerned and fascinated at the same time.

“I wish I could say you look better than last time, but that would be quite a stretch. What sort of accident can produce this, I wonder?” he observed him. “Or what kind of person?”

“It wasn’t exactly an accident, Mister Garak,” Melekor made up, setting his eyes on the tailor, “My roommate is a teacher in martial arts. I convinced him to teach me. He forgot he’s a half-Vulcan, and I’m... not,” he turned a bit more serious, “I’m not going to press charges this time either, it’s my own fault.” Jabara threw the tailor an angry glance

“Go back to bed. You’re not supposed to be here,” she insisted – he didn’t even flinch. Then she put one and one together. “Wait, I _did_ deliver a hypospray to Mister Lykes before. Did you mean-” she leaned forth to murmur the word to Melekor’s ear- “STD?”

“STD?” Melekor repeated aloud in complete innocence, “Maybe?” He looked between Garak’s confused expression and Jabara’s, and felt like he was missing out on some internal, if not joke, understanding, “What is it?” He required to know, fluttering his eyelids a bit in confusion.

“Did that… _training_ involve ...sex?” Jabara asked. Then she turned to Garak. “Now I want you _OUT_ of this room,” she pointed at the medibay. “Back to your bed!” The tailor looked at them both, opened his mouth several times but said nothing.

“Certainly…” he finally uttered but went for the exit instead.

“That’s not the right door, Garak!” Jabara shot in annoyance.

“I’m getting back to _my_ bed,” the tailor walked out anyway, leaving to the nurse the embarrassing duty to give a class in sexual education to a grown man in order to further her investigation.

Not that Melekor complied. There had been no sex and no, he wasn’t going to stop his phelenaxinide in favor of Doctor Bashir’s treatment, and for Guardians’ sake, _no_ , he wasn’t prone to self-harm nor did he have suicidal tendencies just because his ribs still bore the stigma of a little misadventure involving a bar full of Klingons, and one Ghork son of whomever being territorial over a chair. He didn’t care that statistics had hybrids involved in more such accidents than the normal population. He wasn’t a statistic and he was normal.


	14. Day 10-11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: character undergoing severe stress

Julian sat at his and Garak’s usual table, staring in front of him absently and stirring the greenish sauce left from his zabu stew serving – Miles had told him tales about that dish, but none of them were on the doctor’s mind in that moment. He was thinking about Tain. The way he’d said his name, _Julian Subatoi_ _Bashir._ Tain may not have mentioned Jules, Subatoi was too much yet. In hindsight, Julian wished he would have given that name to Elim – Garak – but it was too late now, and as a result, Tain still owned a part of Julian. It made him feel incredibly dirty. He was still deep into his musing when a familiar voice addressed him.

“May I join you?” the Cardassian approached with a tray.

“Garak?” Julian had to stare at him in disbelief as he sat. “What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be in bed at the infirmary,  _ where you belong _ ,” he glared at him accusatively – a way to say that, for all the love he had for him, he would have appreciated if the Cardassian left him well alone with his meditative attempt to forget what he’d been tasked to forget. But Garak wasn’t as merciful as Elim, as it turned out.

“Out of the question, that’s where  _ you _ belong,” Garak replied. “I couldn’t stand being cooked up in that dreadful infirmary for another second. Besides, I feel perfectly fine!” he signified, hoping his standards for health were done being questioned by the doctor. “So! How’s the I’danian spice pudding, today?” he leaned forth the stew leftovers in the other’s plate. A subtle way to scold him for not treating himself with a dessert.

“How’s the spice pudding!?” Julian repeated with mild amusement. “Honestly, I didn’t see any point in getting dessert without someone to share it with,” he pointed before bouncing off to the next accusation, “And so, is that all you have to say for yourself? How can you just sit there and pretend the last ten days never happened?” he asked almost playfully.

“I, for one, doctor, am perfectly satisfied with the way things turned out,” Garak raised up his hand, as to bar himself from thinking of what disturbing things he just witnessed at the infirmary, “and I see no need to dwell on what was doubtlessly a difficult time for both of us. By the way,” he glanced around quickly, adding a good dose of drama to his body language, “I just had the most interesting conversation with Constable Odo. It seems he’s under the impression that I was a member of the Obsidian Order.” Julian snorted.

“What did you tell him?”

“That he was mistaken, of course!”

“And he believed you?”

“Oh, he said something about keeping a closer eye in the future,” the tailor rolled his eyes, “I told him ‘be my guest, I have nothing to hide.’ Here,” he searched in his pocket to get a rod, “I brought you something,” he handed it to Julian.

“What is it?” the doctor observed the nice translucent material for a second.

“ _ Meditations on a Crimson Shadow _ , by Preloc,” Garak answered.

“More Cardassian literature,” Julian smiled, quite delighted that the tailor still wished to pursue discussing art with his limited friend and his Federation philosophy.

“I think you’ll find this one more to your taste,” Garak developed, “it takes place in the future, during a time when Cardassia and the Klingon Empire are at war.”

“Who wins?”

“Who do you think?” he grinned.

“Nevermind,” Julian replied quickly, “don’t tell me. I don’t want you to spoil the ending.” He smiled as Garak chuckled – he could never see too much joy and content happiness on his tailor’s face. “You know,” he turned to a more serious attitude, “I still have a lot of questions to ask you about your past.” It wasn’t entirely true, of course, but it  _ would _ have been true under other circumstances, up until the point where he met Elim. Garak could sense the question coming and looked at him, wide-eyed and ready to defend himself in that game.

“I have given you all the answers I am capable of,” he threw for starter. Oh, Julian wasn’t going to let him get away with it so easily.

“You’ve given me answers alright,” he replied, “but they were all different. What I want to know is out of all the stories you’ve told me, which ones were true and which ones weren’t.”  _ There. Wriggle out of that one, Garak _ , he observed him with attention.

“My dear doctor, they’re all true,” the tailor answered amusedly, taking a bit of sadistic delight in the frustration he was certainly causing in his friend. Julian couldn’t help but sigh at the evasiveness, but smiled nonetheless.

“Even the lies?” he tried again.

“ _ Especially _ the lies,” Garak’s eyes gleamed with an almost unnatural joy.  His gaze was getting intense too. Conscious of it, he closed his eyes and turned his head a little so he could open them again looking towards Julian’s tray rather than him directly. A slight blush rose onto the doctor’s cheeks, and he dismissed it with a laugh.

“You’re incredible, Garak,” he had to admit, both bemusement  _ and _ amusement in his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want some pudding, after all?” he eyed at the bread buns, lying untouched on the other’s tray. “I thought you’d be sick of sickbay food by now,” he threw in a pun almost too real for life. Garak served him a sententious glare.

“How could I oppose when  _ you _ seem to crave it this much? You let me no choice but to accept,” he gestured as to allow the young man to leave the table. Julian grinned a particular childish grin and got up in an instant.

“I’ll be right back!” thankfully the queue wasn’t too long, and he was indeed back soon after, serving Garak his pudding and then sitting down with his own, enthusiastically digging in the cream, then pointing his spoon at Garak, swallowing his mouthful, “It’s good for you,” he reassured him, “after what you went through, loss of appetite can slow recovery down a great deal, and I don’t want you to turn anorectic.”

“I doubt you’ll see me turn thin anytime soon, Doctor, but talking of recovery…” Garak dug in his pudding a bit, some preoccupation showing up. How to say it. The doctor was going to be angry at him again, right? “Nurse Jabara seemed to have some issues just when I left,” he opted to start, although he could sense that Julian’s mood had shifted already. “The other night, this… young half-Cardassian,” he continued, “he was admitted at the infirmary in a rather dire condition after his Vulcan companion attempted a mindmeld on him. There were also some fractured ribs, I believe, but that’s a  _ detail _ ,” he suggested how bad the situation was – Julian had heard of the case, yes, and he wasn’t agreeing with how Garak was speaking of it in a  _ public _ space, glancing around and trying to gesture at him to stop, to no avail.

“I may or may not have hinted to more appropriate dosages of drugs,” Garak admitted, speaking fast. Julian had _not_ heard of this and it showed – he didn’t get a chance to interrupt as the tailor went on, “ _But_ more _concerning_ would be that Mister Kel did leave the infirmary in good health after all, this morning, only to come back severely beaten up some _two hours_ after he left. Again, the Vulcan was responsible. They tried to pass it as a mundane martial arts training gone wrong, but I wonder who starts a tough training just after a life-threatening stay at the infirmary – yes, even _I_ can wonder this,” he shot at the doctor, “And who needs a treatment against STDs before? The Vulcan administered it. This is _quite_ _queer,_ isn’t it?” he squinted.

By the end, the look on the doctor’s face was one of sincere reprimand.

“ _ That  _ is not something you should be speaking about in public,” he had to suppress the urge to ask further questions, or make aghast comments on what Garak had actually told him. The insinuations were quite clear. “You may not be a doctor, but I’d appreciate if you acted like one, at least in such a serious case,” he cleared his throat and put down the spoon. He wasn’t sure where his appetite had gone, but it just wasn’t the same anymore. He  _ knew _ Garak had a sense of discretion, and took the liberty of disappointing him, “How come that Vulcan wasn’t in Odo’s custody in the first place?” he realized, annoyed already, “This could’ve easily been prevented.”

Garak didn’t comment on the fact that, of course, Julian could talk about patients having heart attacks when it had a happy ending of discovering Vulcan roots and ribs made of birch trees. Instead, he  just answered the question.

“Your patient didn’t press charges because said Vulcan is a doctor and saved his life the first time. He did surrender himself to the Constable and spent two nights in detention as a result, but without charges, I suppose he had to be released. Seems like the same pattern is about to repeat, and that is getting to be more than puzzling. Not to mention worrying,” he cared to speak in a much lower voice, though now  _ that _ was the sort of thing to attract suspicion and curiosity.

Julian had seen similar things before, repeated abuse between spouses, where the vicious cycle continued until a forced intervention could occur. But he’d also seen cases that could be mistaken as such, and wouldn’t indulge in drawing hasty conclusions, even though he was prone to believe that not even a Klingon would indulge in violent sex right after his lovemate had recovered from a near-death situation.

“I  _ do _ have the authorization to utilize forced intervention,” he finally shared with Garak. “I’d have to talk to both of them first – this might just be... something kinky gone overboard,” he blushed a little, inwardly rolling his eyes at himself. “Maybe your half-Cardassian friend is a masochist?” he tried to joke, but the joke felt a bit stiff, and Julian briefly thought about post-ganglionic nerves to keep the stiffness from moving other places.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to make such a suggestion…” he answered more evasively, “but if it  _ were _ the case,” he leaned forward to whisper, “dislocating both shoulders seems more alike to torture to me…” Julian, stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth, then let it go down in his bowl again.

“You are right, that degree of pain overrides any kind of pleasure.” No one could enjoy  _ that _ much pain, it wasn’t humanly possible, unless you had like, one of those implants that Garak had had. Julian froze a little and looked at his lunch mate as the realization dawned on him. He wasn’t about to say anything to betray his thoughts, though. He sighed, then rubbed his chin, “Hang on a moment – the Vulcan you are speaking of, I think I’ve met him,” he finally realized, “Yeah, I did.” He frowned a little and shook his head. “We did play a couple of rounds of racquetball; he was very good at it,” he admitted, still a bit sour over how poorly the game had gone on his own behalf.

“I did meet him too, he was interested in a purchase but short on money… I wonder what sort of doctor lacks of money…?” the tailor treated himself a spoon of pudding, suckling on it thoughtfully. He didn’t mention Mynx, but he thought about the file Odo had put together about the man – the Constable suspected him of all sorts of shady things, including blackmail. It wasn’t time to draw any conclusion however. Julian hummed, stirring his spoon in his pudding a bit absently as he considered Garak’s sentiment

“Maybe he’s unemployed –” That only furthered the question to  _ why would a doctor be unemployed _ – “or banned for unlawful practices; it’d make sense, if he’s a… a rapist,” he added, grimacing at the poor taste of the word he’d just taken in his mouth. “I’ll make sure to pass on your question. I think, perhaps, I should go right away.”

“Please do,” the Cardassian let him go. “No matter what you find, this should make for a good outcome. And as for your pudding,” he slid it to his side of the table, “I’ll take care of it with a thought for you,” he afforded a small malicious grin.

##  * * *

Only puzzling things were to be found in the half-Cardassian’s medical journals, nothing much to give Julian a clue as to what was going on. As the patient was still in the infirmary when he went through the documents, he decided to make a try to just ask him, at first. The explanation was the same that Garak had recited, and Julian couldn’t help but to cross his arms over his chest and give the Cardassian a look of disbelief.

“What do you think you were doing, getting into heavy martial arts training just after you got out of here?” he demanded to know. Melekor, who was sitting on his examination bed, shrugged a little.

“I was upset,” it seemed to be the truth, this time, or at least something resembling it.

“About what?”

“I don’t know – I nearly died! Can’t blame my brain for getting ideas. _Now_ , can I leave?” There was something _very_ Cardassian about that flare-up of anger, and Julian realized it meant that Garak wasn’t the only one doing it. For some reason it amused him a little.

“As a doctor, I have the authorization to intervene,” he explained candidly, sitting down next to Melekor, “if I expect something undue has taken place, like an assault.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, that even if you drop your charges, I could pursue in your stead,” he could feel the Cardassian getting stiff. The air itself got stiff.

“Alright, I admit, I lied,” he blabbered quickly, “I have a problem with self-harming,” he continued, twitching a little, “I had an unpleasant confrontation with someone, and I needed to comfort myself. So I manipulated my roommate into hurting me. End of story. Happy now?” Julian wasn’t happy, nor was he very convinced.

“You manipulated your roommate into hurting you, dislocating both your shoulders, bruising you up and having sex with you? You do realize how that sounds?” He tried to be gentle with how he phrased it, looking at the unfortunate Cardassian through the corner of his eye.

“It’s the truth, save for the part about sex,” he answered, “I don’t  _ have _ a sex drive,” Melekor continued further, seemingly embarrassed. “At least not normally,” he glanced sidewise. “Look, I don’t want anyone to know about this, so I’d prefer if you didn’t record it in your medical journals – in fact, if you could erase  _ all _ records of this happening, I would be most grateful.” Julian was quite stunned. He’d been bullshitted by Garak quite a lot, so he’d gotten used to Cardassians lying, and this all reeked of that and more.

“You are aware that dislocated joints count as acute pain, which renders sexual arousal an impossibility?” there were a few exceptions, but like Garak had said, it really  _ did _ sound like torture. Next to him, Melekor snorted.

“As I said, there  _ was _ no sex –” there was acid dropping from that voice. “I’d like to leave. And I’d like for my roommate to be freed as well.” Julian rolled his eyes and got up.

“I’ll talk to him first,” he glanced at Jabara who stood further away and nodded, and then nodded to Melekor. “You can leave, but I’d like you to be careful. If you strain your shoulders again anytime soon, you risk weakening the joint.”

With those sentiments in mind, Julian left the infirmary and headed to Odo, who slipped him a few words about the additional reasons for the Vulcan being held there, and then he entered the glum detention room. Timun Lykes was pacing behind the forcefield when Julian entered, but tried to sit when the doctor picked a chair and took a seat in front of the cell.

“I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened,” Julian asked plainly. Timun found he couldn’t do anything correctly as he rested his feet on the edge of the bench, writhed and couldn’t decide if he wanted to hug his knees or hold himself to the bench’s edge. He had no idea what Melekor may or may not have said, and he was afraid of saying something different. He was nervous. When he’d assaulted Melekor after losing control of himself, he’d felt guilty, but was more than ready to face the consequences of his acts. But now was something different entirely.

“Julian… I mean, Doctor…” he wasn’t managing to look at him straight in the eyes, looking down in shame, “I know what it looks like, but I promise it’s not… It’s really just an unfortunate accident and I was going to provide all the care for it. I’m a doctor!” he gesticulated a bit. “I have perfectly valid diplomas in neurology and physical therapy, I was licensed to practice on Trill and the matricule printed in the medical rods I was confiscated is genuine… I just… forgot the code to enter in the replicator prior to usage, to deactivate the securities – I never  _ had _ to use that procedure on my workplaces and so I just forgot about it completely!” He hadn’t answered the question, he knew, but he just didn’t know how he could lie to the man in front of him, nor did he want to lie, especially to someone like Julian. It would be such a disgrace, and a blow he wasn’t sure he could take when he already felt so trapped and scared.

“I’m not here about the rods, Mister Lykes,” Julian told, leaning forward. He found it extremely odd how Lykes was more concerned about the confiscation of his tools, than the fact that if he was found guilty of what Julian suspected, he’d never be allowed to act as a doctor again. An intriguing gap to explore, a very glaring one at that. “If it’s Odo you are concerned about, you should know that this conversation is protected under doctor-patient confidentiality. Nothing is recorded, and no one but you and I are part of the discussion. Now,” he swallowed and straightened up, “you don’t seem very concerned with the fact that you might lose your rights to practicing medicine if you can’t somehow reassure me that you didn’t abuse that man. I’d like to know  _ why _ .” Timun sighed and chuckled nervously.

“I  _ can’t _ tell you why, but I do have some concerns that are larger than that,” he exhaled. He was way too aware of how obvious it was that he was under a great stress, but he didn’t even have the strength to hate himself for being see-through. Ywanna could read his mind. He was weak and see-through… “I’m done for. I’m… so embarrassed and ...angry, I believe,” he massaged his forehead. He finally dared to raise his eyes and looked at the doctor. “I’m sorry, Julian… I must have been way too naive. I just wanted to learn more about Cardassians but I clearly wasn’t ready for all this.” He let his palm slide down over his face to hide it. “I feel so ashamed to be seen like this, by you especially… I’m a doctor. I swear… I didn’t do anything unlawful to Melekor. He asked me to do it. He  _ wanted _ it in a way that couldn’t be mistaken. It did scare me, it did concern me but…” he opened a gap between his fingers to uncover an eye, “he  _ wanted _ it.” Julian’s shoulders slumped a little, and a distinct frown settled on his forehead.

He really wondered  _ what _ it was that Timun wasn’t mentioning that scared him so much. What had Garak said? ‘What kind of doctor doesn’t have the money?’ For each and every detail the Vulcan shared, the missing pieces got all the more obvious. Julian had to start out with the obvious, then delve into the more obscure.

“According to him, he manipulated you into hurting him. Did you dislocate his shoulders  _ before, during _ or  _ after _ the sex?” he went for a trick question. Melekor might not have admitted to the sex, but Lykes might. Timun flushed and grew nervous. Had he been manipulated? Was it all that was? He wet his lips and glanced around as to escape his own questions because they  _ hurt _ . The implications hurt. His never-ending naivety hurt. 

“I don’t know,” he shot quickly. “Are you asking my version because you’re not satisfied with his? It’s the third time I end up in this cell in just ten days; Odo is considering to put my name on it,” he kept on turning around the question. “I do expect he had security go through our quarters to gather all the evidence that could be found to frame me with crimes I haven’t committed because he probably needs to punish me for something in the end…” He sighed more deeply. “During,” he finally said. “He  _ asked _ me to do it. He  _ liked _ it,” he told with slight horror. “I can barely believe what I did and that he… It  _ has _ to be him being half-Cardassian,” Timun looked at Julian again, with despair this time. “They are more resistant to painkillers, they must be resistant to pain too, right? ...Right?”

Julian shook his head negatively, although it was more from disbelief than an actual answer to the question. The brain scans of Melekor that were taken during Julian’s absence had shown no sign of an implant akin to the one Garak had, so the answer had to be elsewhere. There was only one other possibility available: the phelenaxinide. He’d have to take a closer look on it.

“So…” he went on, “he says he manipulated you, and you certainly seem to be in enough shock for that to be true,” he pinched the bridge of his nose between his middle fingers, looking at the other like he could scan him and have all the answers. “While I’m delighted to let this one go, there is one thing that troubles me: what are you so afraid of?”

“If I told you this, I would need to do something illegal this time, even if it would be for a good reason. To protect someone. To take this someone to safety.” He shook his head sadly. “That wouldn’t even be a solution! Being on the run isn’t a life, and I don’t know how I could maintain the illusion that nothing’s wrong when I can’t even identify and control my own emotions…!” He let his head fall down, resting his forehead on his crossed arms over his knees. “I’m not sure anyone can do anything for me… I hoped Odo could, but now the game has changed, the stakes are higher… I’m done for.” He closed his eyes tight, but tears of rage still made their way out. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder. “If this is all some Cardassian plot, if Melekor manipulated me like he says…” he rose his nose up a bit, “Maybe he’s trying to frame me so I can no longer be his doctor nor his teacher? Maybe he’s trying to free us both from this…” Why did it even mattered to him that Melekor’s intentions be good in the end?

Blackmail. Julian had to restrain the impulse to snap his fingers in thrill at the realization. That was what Garak had already realized! Clever man, that tailor. He wasn’t sure how deep he should push into it, however. There seemed to be a lot at stake, and the gamble was hardly his to make. If he were to pursue now, he might risk innocent lives. It would have to wait – but Julian would be there, prepared to help in any way he could.

“He’s not pressing charges,” Doctor Bashir decided against tormenting Lykes any further, “and neither am I; I think I can find a way to explain what happened here; it’ll take some time, but I  _ will _ solve it,” he got up from the chair and put it away, then, his back still turned to Lykes, he stopped for a moment. Blackmail.

That was why Lykes was going to Cardassia, away from Federation space. What dirt did someone have on him, that was so bad he’d be willing to seek shelter in  _ Cardassia _ of all places? And what did he mean that he was Melekor’s doctor and teacher, both of them unwillingly so? Was it connected to the blackmail? Did sound like it might be. There was a lot more to this than Julian had first thought.

“I’ll tell Odo to let you out,” he had to say something after that awkward silence. Timun gulped slowly. He knew he should be relieved, but he wasn’t. Seconds before, he wanted to be let out of the cell so he could run away maybe. Now, the perspective of freedom reminded him that Ywanna was out there. Julian was quick and smart, obviously enough so to catch underlying meanings, and he truly seemed like a good and generous man. Timun could in no way risk dragging him in the mud with him. Even trying to warn him might be too much, and yet he dearly wanted to be certain the man would not let himself fall prey to Ywanna’s methods.

“Julian…” he pronounced the name with hesitation. “You have a very unique mind… Keep it yours,” he faked a smile, as to comfort himself he wasn’t making a mistake in telling this. “Thank you for everything… but you’ve done too much. You should take care of yourself, doctor.”

_ That _ was cryptic, and Julian had to consider the option that Lykes might not have trusted him when he said they were alone. That, or he was simply paranoid. He’d have to save that sentence and review it later, when less pressed for time. “I will do that,” he simply answered before leaving the room.

Moments later, Odo came in and, with great misery, deactivated the forcefield.

“I don’t know how you keep doing it, but you can go,” he said tiredly, feeling like he did nothing but escort Lykes in and out of this cell.

# 

#  Day 11

 

On the next day, Garak’s Clothier was opened again. If not for some headache, which he alleviated with some of  _ his _ triptacederine (that he had to steal back from the infirmary), the tailor was starting to feel back to health, but not exactly back to being Garak. Denying Elim’s presence, his wishes and desires – especially at night – wasn’t easy when a sickening bliss seemed to animate each and every of his cells. The tailor worked with energy; he even felt like he was rediscovering details in the patterns and textures he’d forgotten laid in his stock of fabrics. His cuts were more confident, his seams more perfect than ever; the clothes he sew: radiant. As he was.

He was quite conscious that this was all a bit ridiculous, and he was all too aware of the cause of it all, but nevertheless eager to face his trigger. He looked at the man and smiled, though no more politely than usual, treating him as if nothing had changed between them – lie. Everything had changed.

“Is it lunch time already or do you have some trousers that need repair?” he asked as if he weren’t conscious he’d purposely forced Julian to come fetch him by not joining him himself.

“It’s  _ time _ ,” Julian said hurriedly, thumbing the PADD he was carrying, “in fact, I was hoping we could have lunch somewhere private. I have something I need to discuss with you, about one of my patients. The Promenade won’t cut it for this.” He wasn’t even supposed to discuss his patients with anyone at all, least of all a Cardassian, which he knew Garak would very easily understand.

“Well, well, I suppose it must be quite dire a condition for you to break this sacred secrecy,” the tailor folded a sleeve of fabric. “Or am I to be part of the cure?” he asked, more sententious. “Oh, no, don’t answer! Don’t tell me. I don’t want you to spoil the ending,” he echoed the doctor’s words from the previous day at the Replimat, and laid the folded fabric on the table. “So, where shall you take me this time?” he asked. Then looked at Julian’s blush with a ‘ _ not like that _ ’ kind of glare.

At that, the doctor completely lost track of what he was supposed to reply and just started to blurt from a random topic to another – books, replicators, the untidy state of his quarters, the healthiness of strolls before lunch… – all whilst dragging Garak on such a stroll.

“Will you ever tell me what you wanted to or shall we patrol the entire station first?” the Cardassian ended up asking. Julian looked around before delivering the answer in a hushed but enthusiastic voice.

“Blackmail!” he outed and proceeded to tell what he learned during his interview with Lykes, including those very strange words in the end.

“Blackmail,” Garak started with the beginning, “is an interesting word, in that it was listed among the crimes which Constable Odo suspects our half-Vulcan’s own father to be guilty of,” he revealed a crusty bit of information. “Now, would it be appropriate to draw hasty conclusions? Have we considered that all of them might be guilty of something? And if so, what would it be?” he grinned. “If Lykes is being blackmailed, what is the lever? And who holds it? And why this clue about your mind…?” he held his chin thoughtfully. “If you should keep it yours, could he refer to a mind meld? He did attempt one on Mister Kel, and unsuccessfully so… which is odd in itself.” He was starting to get the tingling of an inkling, but didn’t want to phrase it out yet.

“All blackmail is preceded by the guilt of the victim,” Julian appreciated Garak’s reasoning. “If we are to phrase it as such, what would one be guilty of that would cause one to run off with another person in case what’s hidden is brought to the surface? To top it off, he implied whoever it is might not even know of this secret. Some sort of love affair, was my first thought. After all, I think the most common thing to be guilty of would be cheating, but then, I don’t think Mister Lykes is the monogamous or committed sort,” he thinned his lips, leaning against the wall with a frown. “As for his father, if we are going to involve him in this hypothesis, what would drive a  _ father _ to blackmail his own son? Either he’s a jerk, or he’s the person Mister Lykes would be running off with, or he could be neither, really, just a criminal keeping to himself, who knows?” he took a deep breath, continuing, “We both know what Kel is guilty of: he consciously manipulated Lykes.” Garak didn’t like to hear of ‘Kel’ being accused of anything, although he wasn’t entirely conscious of the way Julian’s sentence made his guts twist in defense of Palandine’s daughter. Then again, the tailor had a lot more to reveal about the Kels, both Melekor and Ywanna, but he kept it all for himself.

“We’re still lacking too much information about the motives of all the players,” he had to admit.

“We’ll have to be on the lookout then,” Julian decided, “that’s all we can do for now,” he fiddled little with the PADD he was holding. “Jaden  _ Mynx, _ though... A Joined Trill, I gather. It’s strange, really, I thought the Symbiosis Commission was supposed to keep... questionable individuals from getting Joined,” he pursed his lips, “If Odo is right and Jaden is a criminal, wouldn’t that mean he’s running the risk of exile, or death penalty by symbiont removal? That  _ would _ warrant a worried son trying to save his father by running away with him – what kind of position would a person have, who could blackmail him about this? It would have to be someone the Symbiosis Commission would trust, but also someone who would be shady enough to deal in blackmail.”

“Ah, but my dear Doctor, aren’t you being a candid Human again?” Garak chuckled. “I hate to pin it on your Starfleet ideals once more, but there is no light without shadow, and the greater the light, the darker the shadow. If the Symbiosis Commission presents itself as such a devoted organization striving for a greater good with its elitist ambitions… you can expect it to be filled with filth and corruptions of all sorts. I may not be most familiar with Trills, but if Mynx could live long enough to have a child the age of Lykes, I wouldn’t think that he would be the one to need protection. He is certainly protected already, either by being part of some shady group, either by blackmailing the right people… or both. Probably both,” he smirked. That was his instinct.

“If we shall ignore for a moment the possibility that Mynx might be  _ both _ influential  _ and _ a criminal, that does in no way mean he’s impervious to blackmail himself; the more you dwell in the shadows, the more they become a threat to you yourself, do they not?” He asked as to imply that Garak most certainly must have experience getting bitten by said shadows. Then he tapped the PADD restlessly against the wall behind him, and continued with growing enthusiasm, “If my candid-Human-of-Starfleet self may offer his no doubt painfully naïve insights: perhaps  _ Mynx _ doesn’t need help, but does his  _ son _ know that? After all, getting to the dubious father through the oblivious son might just be the  _ only  _ way to get back at such a man,” Julian’s smile had turned smug, and he looked at Garak with the same face he’d use during a game of chess that was going his way.

“Your assumption could be correct, Doctor, but to investigate it, we need to know more about the relationships between the father and the son.” He paused quite suddenly, interrupting himself with a thought, “Of course, this all may be none of our business, but… there is a certain thrill to it, isn’t it? Puzzles feel like they yearn to be solved ...How can you resist this appeal?” he grinned.

“Oh, but you’re wrong, I  _ do _ consider it to be relevant to me. As a doctor, it helps greatly to know more about the lives of my patients, especially the parts of them that might impact them negatively,” he smiled a boyish smile, then resisted the urge to nudge Garak’s arm and tell him that  _ he _ was a puzzle too, wasn’t he? “Speaking of which, now I really think we should withdraw to the lab, because it should be desert right now, and this,” he held up the PADD with the back towards Garak, “contains something that is protected by secrecy, and so we need somewhere discreet to view it.”

 

Just a bit later, the two of them settled in the science lab with a cup of tea each, and Julian finally delivered the PADD to Garak, letting him read (while himself looked over the mushroom culture he’d started for Jadzia). On the PADD figured a very lengthy recipe consisting of hormones, chemicals and substances, some of which Julian hadn’t seen described prior to reading the list.

Phelenaxinide. Supposedly its use for his young half-Cardassian patient was to suppress his empathic and telepathic sensitivity and capabilities. In reality, it did much more than that – it had to. Julian just wasn’t sure what exactly, but thought that maybe Garak would make sense of it. The most glaring element had to be the extreme levels of testosterone – not even Julian’s transgender patients came with prescriptions that high. Now, it wasn’t impossible that Melekor was trans, as they had found bodily fluids in his and the half-Vulcan’s quarters that were distinctly not Lykes’ – and they had displayed a complete lack of sperm, leading Julian to wonder if the half-Cardassian had been altered to look male ...or neutered. Garak however could easily link this with what Ywanna mentioned during their unpleasant meeting at the infirmary.

“I tried to get in contact with Doctor Selek, the Vulcan doctor who composed the drug,” Julian said over his tea as Garak was still reading, “I got an answer just this morning. He died yesterday,” he slipped the information. “Fatal heart attack. And his assistant reassured me that there was  _ no _ indication that he’s ever acted as doctor to one Melekor Kel. Now, maybe the timing is just really unfortunate, but I think it’s all very suspicious,” he muttered pointedly to Garak.

“A most unfortunate coincidence indeed…” the Cardassian muttered without humor. He raised his gaze up on Julian – the serious sort of look he resumed to when the situation got too dire for jokes. “You know what I think of coincidences,” he sniped sharply and went for the facts. “Melekor Kel’s mother is Ywanna Kel. You probably wouldn’t think a Betazoid writer to be any dangerous sort of person, but I still wonder what sort of woman can go to Cardassia, romance a Conservator, get pregnant and run away with his child in her womb. She must be a skilled telepath to have waged her way out… and she must have been helped by someone in the Obsidian Order,” he winced. “Who? Why? – I wouldn’t know. But she did have this odd assumption that I might belong to the Order myself – quite a fascinating thing to imagine about a Cardassian tailor on the edge of death in the infirmary of a Bajoran station,” he pressed his lips tight together. “That is not all. The news you told me about the Vulcan doctor are no great surprise… She will ask you, Doctor, to erase all records concerning her son,” he took a deeper inspiration. He did not like this. “Then, I am no medical expert, but is there a possibility that Melekor Kel might be a woman? Or ...partly one?” he got up and offered the PADD back to Julian, eyeing at the fungal culture before continuing, “His mother suggested there had been some kind of ambiguity that was never investigated at a deeper level. Kel might not even know about this himself. Or maybe he tried to fix his lack of sex drive with testosterone intake, although that hormone has no influence on that in our species.”

There were a great many things that caused Julian’s eyes to round in surprise through the entirety of Garak’s speech, all rather equal in size. That  _ Garak _ would be the one to namedrop the Obsidian Order  _ first _ for once, that Miss Kel had somehow figured out Garak’s potential allegiances so fast, and then, Melekor’s lack of sex drive – when had the two Cardassians discussed that, and  _ why _ ? It was odd how that detail in particular was especially upsetting to Julian.

“I suppose there’s such a thing as intersexism,” he answered, “and if he were to have external male organs and internal female organs, that would mean he’d be unaware of his condition – except this indicates he’d be lacking testes, and he does appear to have some,” he finally exhaled, kindling the realization that he’d forgotten to breathe through the entirety of it. Then he held onto his tea to keep himself from starting to gesticulate wildly, continuing with more energy. “So, you mean you think this Kel woman has dealings with the Obsidian Order?” he asked vividly while Garak’s attention partially shifted to the computer panel next to the mushrooms, “And she is here, now? Why for? To check up on her  _ very adult _ son?”

“She did scold him like a  _ child _ and insists he is  _ her son _ ,” Garak argued. There were limits to what overbearingness could be put on the account of Ywanna being a Betazoid, Julian figured. Melekor  _ was _ twenty-seven…

“You think she had Selek killed?” he asked instead. “Or would you pin that on the Obsidian Order? Why would they do that?”

“I wouldn’t assume the Order to be responsible for this doctor’s death, but it  _ is _ a possibility if he managed to put together biomedical information that could be considered a threat to Cardassia-” Garak said and Julian froze in place as realization dawned on him – Garak wasn’t just obstinate and Cardassian. All this time, he’d been fending off Doctor Bashir of Starfleet, because he was protecting him. And Julian had been too daft to realize the real intent. Up until this moment. He should have been intimidated by the Obsidian Order’s influence, but found that he was more touched by Garak’s caring than he was scared. He had to swallow those feelings for the moment, though, listening as his friend went on.

“-But if this were the case, I would expect Ywanna Kel to have been assassinated too. Melekor Kel is unknown to the Bureau of Identification and wishes to meet his father. It  _ is _ a dangerous quest, and his mother is conscious of the stakes. She’s taking over her son’s quest. She is… protective. And persuasive,” he put down his cup and punched a few commands into the computer.

“What are you doing?” Julian reacted.

“I’m doing my best of course,” the Cardassian shrugged as the doctor peeked over his shoulder to see what he was doing – injecting plant DNA into the culture, as a matter of fact.

“Garak,” Julian said nervously, “this is-”

“-Something I learned from a competent botanist,” the tailor interrupted and turned to him. “Those mushrooms mutate upon maturation. If you wish to obtain a good symbiosis with that plant, you need to let them know what they should prepare for, else they’ll be absolutely useless and the plant will die,” he explained seriously.

“I ignored you knew so much about Ledonian botany,” Julian admitted. Garak smiled but didn’t reply. At least, the doctor thought, he’d been right about one thing: Garak liked plants, and he’d hopefully appreciate the gift he’d brought from Arawath. Then the tailor broke the thoughtful silence to return to the previous topic of discussion.

“If Ywanna Kel can read minds and influence them, she might be the one blackmailing Lykes to force him into replacing Selek. And Lykes might be concerned by some plans she might have for you…”

“ _ That’s _ what he meant!” Julian suddenly realized, “Timun Lykes, when I left and he told me to keep my mind my own, he meant I need to protect myself, from  _ her _ .” He was astonished at his own guess. “I don’t know how,” he realized, rather terrified at the concept. The Cardassian tapped the edge of the computer panel with annoyed fingers and looked at Julian in the eyes.

“I’m not certain we have time to train you in resisting a mental assault, Doctor, but  _ we _ need you to be capable of shielding your mind. You have way too much information to protect, not just about your patients, Starfleet, this station… but also – if I may point this in sheer altruism for our alter egos – about Elim and Julian.” How embarrassing. “Are there some drugs that could either inhibit you or her?”

“There has never been any efficient way to medically shield your mind from empaths,” Julian shook his head, “as a matter of fact, Mister Kel’s phelenaxinide is the closest thing I’ve ever seen, and as efficient as it is on him, it would straight out  _ kill _ his mother,” he thumbed his mug. “You Cardassians  _ are _ made of sterner stuff,” he admitted, “I’ll just have to deal with it, I’m sure there’s Vulcan literature on how to contain one’s mind; I’ll have to download a book and read it – well, at least the basics,” he conceded and walked over to take a seat at the nearby table.

“If the  _ basics _ are all you need,” Garak mimicked him, taking the chair facing him, “I can already spare you some time and tell you it takes intense discipline,” he pushed the information forth. “I  _ may _ be able to obtain some Cardassian literature on the topic,” he mused – he’d already started to arrange a subspace communication with Rokat. Garak had been worried that coming to him with news that would interest him might come off as suspicious, especially when the man still owed him a favor. To ask him for such a favor might actually be a good way to cover other intentions. “Meanwhile, it would probably be best to avoid any contact with Miss Kel.”

“Wait, Cardassians practice mind-shielding?” Julian burst in surprise before he could contain himself, then blushed indignated to himself and leaned back in his chair. Of course they did. They were xenophobic and paranoid, why wouldn’t they? “You have to forgive me if I cheat on you and start reading some Vulcan volumes in the meanwhile; I am not sure I can avoid her, should she drop by the infirmary, which is practically me, as you’ve said it yourself.” He smiled and closed his eyes, leaning further into the chair. “Trust me,” he asked boldly, while he himself didn’t trust Garak with his own secrets, “I’ll handle it; she won’t find the weakness she’s looking for. I’ve thought about it and,” he opened his eyes, looking carefully at his Cardassian friend, “I have decided to erase the data if she requests of me that I do so. Not because I particularly like doing what the over-protective mother commands, but because I believe the patient is just as interested in such an erasure. He already made it clear to me that he doesn’t want to upset the Central Command by, what was it he said, submitting to Starfleet care or somesuch.”

The tailor held his cup in both hands and smiled sweetly, observing Julian. Elim appreciated the sight and confidence. Garak felt slightly relieved that his friend was making the smart choice without difficulties for once – not that Julian was an idiot, of course.

“I suppose this would be wise. You’ll probably need to excuse your compliance  however… Make up some political agreement justifying this erasure. If there is a quality I must reckon in Starfleet, it would be this love for keeping records and archives of all sorts. You are  _ almost _ as good as us Cardassians,” he belittled the flattery. “Be careful, still,” he insisted with more concern.

“Am I ever not careful?” Julian countered with a charming grin, then chuckled and got up, getting over to the replicator, “I’ll tell her that her son already requested that the data be erased, and that I complied because I am forced by Federation regulations to respect his choice to pursue Cardassian citizenship, as it’s considered a birthright – Computer, one serving of medium-strong Earth chocolate pudding, bittersweet, medium cold, with one full deciliter of whipped cream,” he grinned happily, already looking forwards to eating it, “Would you care to try one, too?” he asked over his shoulder, “I think you might like it.”

“Let us indulge,” Garak accepted. “Your explanation sounds naive, but it sounds like Starfleet too.” Julian ordered a duplicate of his previous order, and returned to the table with an unmistakable air of amusement, setting Garak’s pudding in front of him before settling back in his seat.

“But about the phelenaxinide, the only remarkable finding you made was the testosterone?” He had to admit, that was disappointing, “There’s nothing in there that would explain how in the world he could enjoy getting his shoulders dislocated?” Garak took a spoonful of pudding with a bit of cream.

“Nothing, and I must say I find this as disquieting as you certainly do. But maybe something is off with his nervous system? Or… maybe he was trained for torture,” he suggested more grimly. “Conditioned to draw pleasure from pain,” he looked at his spoon and ate. “But I doubt anyone could possibly enjoy this kind of pain. The bruises I saw on him suggests the escalation must have been gradual, and I can see how one could get numbed enough to take a little more and a little more… but this seems too extreme to me. And I don’t exactly fancy myself as a wimpy nature,” he waved his spoon in a fit of mannerism. Admittedly, he got that implant for a reason, but the Order’s standards of endurance to pain were quite far above what could be expected of a civilian. Then he thought of certain things he did after getting his Wire, and Elim thought of the peculiar things Julian had mentioned during… “Are you…” He stopped himself. “This isn’t the moment…” he looked down.

“There are  _ other _ reasons people might condition themselves to endure pain than to resist torture,” Julian was oblivious to where the tide was going in Garak’s head, “sexual practices, for instance. But, when people condition themselves for this purpose, you can only go so far before you’ll reach the point where you’re no longer physically capable of staying aroused and hurt at the same time – there’s pain, and then there’s  _ pain _ . Melekor’s damages are of the second variety,” he spooned up some foamy pudding, “and yet –” he snapped his jaw shut, as he realized he was about to share really private details that he had no business sharing – “I’ve seen some extreme things through the years,” he said with desperate horror haunting his face. “Everything between bruises, items stuck up where they should not have been put in the first pace, and people driving nails through themselves… but I haven’t once seen a dislocated joint that was dislocated on purpose, not in this context anyway.” He wanted to facepalm, because he realized he’d just given it away anyway, and as his face got all red, he wished he could turn into a puddle and, like Odo, just slink away. “My point is, if he was conditioned, it’s with no method I know of. So it must be his nervous system, although the data we have would indicate he’s completely normal. But it’s not a lot of data. I might need more to draw a conclusion.” The Cardassian nodded and shrugged in agreement and helplessness, tilting his head a bit to a side and then the other while carefully digging in his pudding by spinning his spoon in it.

“I presume he won’t be too compliant for such tests if his life isn’t threatened again, but considering how many times it has happened already, you just need to wait the next one. Probably in a few days,” Garak jested, avoiding to look at Julian’s blushing face as some flush did show on his own cheeks. What a strange discussion this was. The Cardassian had gotten high on pain at times, but it had been more alike to taking drugs than anything sexual. He knew of such things as Julian mentioned however, or rather, he’d  _ heard _ of some, but it was more alike to urban myths – Cardassia  _ wasn’t _ a place where such ‘disorderly’ practices were commonplace and Garak certainly wasn’t the most knowledgeable person about those. In Julian’s words, it felt all the more real. “...You do know a great many things, Doctor.” 

“More than you can imagine,” Julian answered, glancing at the Cardassian being unnaturally  _ cute _ and  _ squirming _ . “Unfortunately it’s nothing I can afford sharing just yet; if memories are renewed I might have a harder time suppressing them in the presence of our telepathic antagonist,” he reached out his leg and rubbed his toes against Garak’s leg, or if it was Elim’s, he wasn’t sure, “I hope you like your pudding?”

“It is… good,” Garak closed his eyes while Elim enjoyed the sensation. “Pleasant, even.” Oddly so, it was both soothing and enthusing. “Choke-late, is what you said it’s called? I must admit I thought it would be spicier, and I was cautious, but it still doesn’t seem to  _ choke  _ me, or maybe it’s not  _ late  _ enough for the effect to come?” Julian laughed at that and shook his head.

“We should both get on with our respective tasks, I imagine I have a lot of reading to do,” he took their bowls back to the replicator.

“Certainly,” Garak agreed. He looked at Julian from where he sat, only getting up when the young man came back. He let him go for the door first, walking in his back with confidence. In the second Julian neared the door, Garak caught the man’s wrists, whirled him over and pinned him against the wall.

“Julian…” he sighed even though he smiled. “How a man with this high a sensual and sexual drive as you have still manages to be so damnably brilliant and efficient in his work is beyond me, but you’re going to need to discipline yourself,” he nuzzled him and kissed his mouth. Julian’s eyes grew wider at once. The situation was simultaneously pissing him off and turning him on, and the confusion resulted in anger – hadn’t he just told Garak not to make things more complicated?

“Garak!” he barked once the other’s mouth was off of his own, glaring at him with eyes that weren’t dark  _ just _ because he was angry, “Get off of me this instant!” He couldn’t really wrestle out of the Cardassian’s grip, and it wasn’t because he wasn’t trying; it was because Elim was stronger than he’d anticipated. For a tailor.

“Shh, quiet, Doctor,” Elim strengthened his grip whilst staring more intensely into the other’s eyes. “Your emotions are irrelevant in this instant. Your bodily sensations are irrelevant as well. I shouldn’t be the one removing myself from you. You are the one who should remove yourself ...from yourself,” he told very seriously. “How can I let you go if you cannot even control yourself here? Breathe and focus on it enough to forget about your own body, as if your mind were but a floating concept. Let your respiration hold you in the air, let the electricity in your brain shape the entirety of your being,” he commanded.

Julian stilled in an instant. Garak had  _ never _ looked at him like that, and neither had Elim. There was something almost hostile about it, and it terrified him and made him gulp on his saliva. Who was  _ this _ Cardassian, then? Raw, unadulterated force laid in those eyes. Something almost telepathic, though Julian was firmly certain that Cardassians weren’t empaths, if not for their brains, then for their history.

He gulped again. Had to rewind everything in his head and replay what Garak had actually  _ said _ . It wasn’t until he could pay actual attention to the words that the terror started to dissolve. Doing what Garak described was unexpectedly easy, and pretty soon he was neutral, disassociated from his body, standing like in a vacuum where neither time nor space mattered. He existed, but the rest of the world was just a concept – Julian’s consciousness was the only reality. It was such an odd sensation. Slowly, Garak softened his grip and set Julian’s wrists down his sides. The blue of his eyes thawed as well, recovering a lively gleam.

“You are doing well, doctor,” he congratulated him with formal gentleness. “You will need to learn to become fully aware of your body as well, then to do both exercises at the same time. I suggest you practice this when you have a moment for this.” Once back in his body, Julian felt a bit disorientated and fired a slightly groggy, still insecure, smile at the Cardassian who he wasn’t sure who he was, or what he was, anymore.

“I do have a question for you, Mister Garak,” he phrased, though his tongue felt quite unpleasant in his mouth, and now that he’d paid it special attention, it was hard to stop thinking about it, “How come Cardassians of all people would practice this kind of art? Don’t get me wrong, I understand that it’s good to have in handy if you go up against a Vulcan, but honestly? Cardassians are so secluded, what use would you have for a defense against telepaths and empaths...?”

“When you know your enemies have weapons, doesn’t it make sense to build up defenses against them? I rather believe a more appropriate question would be, how comes a young man as smart as you keeps on asking questions that have such an obvious answer?” he gave a sorry frown. “Or is there an end to this innocence of yours?” he teased with a smirk and a poke on Julian’s solar plexus – the doctor made a small ‘ _ ouch _ ’ sound and rubbed the sore spot where Garak had prodded him, glaring at him with overdramatic betrayal. “Wait, don’t tell me. I want to solve this enigma on my own,” Garak grinned and led the both of them towards the door – Julian snaked out of the other’s grip just time to snatch the PADD he’d nearly forgotten on the table – ‘would have been very, very bad to leave it there with all those medical details.

“So  _ I _ am the puzzle that yearns for solving? The one you talked about earlier,” he decided to tease as he sidled up to Garak and the two of them left the room together, “Why, I almost thought you were self-centered then; I guess I must have misjudged your character.”

“But doesn’t everybody on this station always do?” Garak replied, equally dramatic.


	15. Day 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, on Cardassia, a Conservator gets a call from a tailor...

# Interlude

##    
Cardassians

  
  
  


* * *

## Day 11

(continued)

 

Sun was setting over the capital city of Lakat, and the sight it created was a heartbreakingly beautiful one; the declining star drew the long shadows of arched towers and painted rays like hazy strokes of golden mist, while the sky, devoid of any cloud, blazed red lashed with gold.

Nall had spent his evening outdoors with Liyara, walking her by-now frail figure through the increasingly unfamiliar gardens they used to enjoy so much together. She had become a ghost of a Cardassian, and in the rare event that they ran into families, the mere look of her would scare the children away – he could see the pain in her eyes as she looked after them and couldn’t understand why they ran. Sometimes she even asked, and he had no answer for her.

Sometimes she’d see a boy and mistake him for her son, and he’d have to remind her again and again, that Glain was a grown man now, a son to be proud of. She’d be happy then, surfacing for seconds so precious that nothing in the universe could hold more value than those rarefying instants. But then she’d fall into the shadow again, a silent woman whose eyes were sunk in hollows of black, and whose once well-kept, strong hair had lost its luster. They had both cried the day they decided it had to be cut. _Like a man’s_ , she had said, wondering how he could still love her, when she was losing her femininity. Her distrust in his love had broken his heart – somehow, no matter how much shattered it already was, he couldn’t stop breaking for her.

Three years had the illness descended over her, sadistically slow in its progress. Nall had been forced to cut down on his hours, much to the displeasure of the Ministry of Justice. Not that they could deny him – he was in his mid-sixties, he was good, and his choice was a positive symbolism to his people, to reflect him as a caring, epitome-of-Cardassian husband, full of love and tenderness. It aided him in his role as a Conservator. He’d used his painful family life as a tool numerous times during the past years – it sickened him. _He_ sickened himself. But he carried on.

He looked older than he was. Thinner than he used to be, too, with streaks of white invading the otherwise lush, black mane that crowned his head. Glain nagged him about eating, but rarely had he had such poor appetite as he did these days. On a good day, when Liyara smiled, laughed or looked at him with sudden lucidity, he’d eat more than he usually did for weeks.

This had not been such a day. She had looked at the beautiful sunset, but she hadn’t seen it. He could tell. She wasn’t there.

 

It was following this hollow walk, just after he’d come back home and tucked Liyara in bed, kissed her goodnight and turned off the lights, that the door chimed. He’d been anxious that it would disturb his wife, but she seemed serene in her sleep, and he managed to go to the door without waking her up.

Flowers? For a split second he’d thought they were for his son, no doubt from one of the many women he’d uselessly and unwittingly charmed, but then, he looked at what the kind of flowers the delivery teen had brought. Sand lilies, the black variety –  “Oh, _no_ ,” utter dismay settled on the Conservator’s face. Nall’s guts twisted from revived memories and he begrudgingly accepted them.

Resignation ate him up, and he sat at the edge of the kitchen table, opening the little note that came with the flowers. Why now? As if he had the time or energy for this. But just as he opened the note, a signal emitted from the console in the lounge room, and he hurried there with the flowers and the billet containing the encryption code. He sat down in his spartan chair and set the pot next to the screen, entering the code into the console.

“This better be important,” he stared at the man on the screen. The impudence.

“I hope you appreciate the flowers, Rokat,” Garak answered with a formal smile. “And yes, it’s quite important. But first, I need you to obtain something for me.” He paused a second, appreciating that Nall seemed to listen attentively albeit disgruntledly. “A handbook on mental shielding discipline; techniques to resist Vulcan mindmeld and telepathic assaults from Betazoids,” he required simply.

“Is this some kind of perverted joke, Garak? Because I _really_ am not in the mood,” Nall squinted, eyes thinned to suspicious slits.

“Oh, believe me, it is no joke,” Garak’s eyes widened in contrast. “I _wish_ it were. And considering what I have to reveal, I’m afraid you’ll still owe me. Your career and your family are at stake, so, will you send me what I asked?” he insisted. The Conservator was annoyed but rolled his eyes and opened his personal library, selecting three titles relevant to the request.

“What do you even need them for?” he asked as he initiated the transfer. “Did you get pregnant and had a child or something?” he sniped rather aggressively at the... whatever Garak was these days. Exilee?

“Just getting a bit nostalgic,” Garak politely replied, ignoring the very rude insinuations. “But it’s true that the matter has to do with children – _yours._ It appears that Glain is your second…” he specified with malice. “Did you never wonder why _she_ suddenly ran away, never to come back nor answered a single of your calls?”

The old Cardassian froze completely. He felt as though his heart had stopped dead in his chest, and he forced himself to lean back against the back of the chair, gulping. Something akin to pure fear flickered behind his eyes, a bird locked in a cage, yet visible for all to see.

Ywanna Kel.

He thought he was done getting hurt by her. “I thought she ran away because I asked her to enjoin me,” he finally uttered, his voice so strangled it hurt to speak. She’d run away with _his_ child. That was illegal! He had claims and rights to that child! It was a Cardassian, and it was _his_ , and he’d take her to the court for this – no. No, he couldn’t. He already had a family. He couldn’t ask his wife and his son to go through with this, because he had been a fool in his youth. He lowered his gaze, dejected.

“What... kind?” he asked finally, “Boy or girl?” Not that it mattered, did it?

“She called him _Melekor_ ,”  the tailor weaved his way around as he no longer was certain of the answer. “He looks perfectly Cardassian, though he has her eyes. A fine youth of twenty-seven with a talent for, ah, mechanics and engineering.” He figured now might not be the time to mention his inhumane resistance to pain – Rokat was in enough shock already. “He wishes to meet you, but doesn’t expect to be legally recognized. His mother however seems decided to have you recognize him, and it appears she still has contacts on Cardassia. I would suggest you to clean around yourself a bit if that is possible. You are a most respectable man,” he told more softly, a hint of sadness seeping through. “You do not deserve this, and neither does Glain. He must be a charming young man now, and starting to get places…”

The old man was starting to look like a mess – the entirety of Nall’s role as a Conservator had everything to do with emotions, and as it were, he had _a lot_ of them presently. His fingers had formed into claws, as he dug his nails into the arms of the chair to keep himself in place, and his eyes had started to prick with tears from so many different emotions that he wasn’t sure what they even symbolized. She’d named him Melekor. After _his_ father. At least it was a good name, though he had to marvel at the nerve. The nerve of that infuriating woman.

“She _stole_ my son,” he hissed with a voice that was threatening to get out of control, “she _scorned_ my proposal, and now she’s demanding I recognize him?!” he released his right hand’s grip on the chair, just to smack it and then leaned his head all the way back to try and get his tears back to where they had come from. When he finally leaned forwards, they escaped anyway. “But... why?” he asked uselessly with a whimper, “She is the one who ran away. She’s the one who robbed him of his familiarity with me – why is she doing this? I could take her to court for this!” he closed his eyes, “But then I will end up there myself, and not in the way I would prefer. Does she really hate me this much?” Garak didn’t know what to answer because he simply did not have the answers.

Upstairs, out of earshot, the doors to Nall and Liyara’s bedroom had opened, and the ghostly figure had stepped out of the darkness. Slowly, she’d made her way downstairs and finally entered into the lounge, where she stood in her white nightgown, looking at Nall’s back with great concern.

“All I know,” the tailor started speaking again, “is that ...she insists he is _her_ son, and her love for him might be dangerous to all. She _might_ have had a Vulcan doctor assassinated just yesterday, and I suspect she is using her telepathic abilities to blackmail other persons into furthering her agenda.” He paused, looking at the ghostly shape that had entered the room. Was it Liyara? Garak silenced and froze, trying to conceal the pain and empathy so not to embarrass Rokat with feelings that were most certainly unwelcome, even in their sympathy. As Nall realized Garak was looking behind him, he turned in his chair and closed his eyes almost instantly.

“Liyara,” he breathed and reached out a hand towards her. She made her way over to him very slowly, and took it. Nall drew her closer and had her stand next to him, smiling a pained smile towards Garak. “This is my beloved wife,” he introduced her as if the other had never met her – he knew it hardly mattered to her anymore, but it wasn’t for what she was now; it was for who she used to be, and she deserved the dignity, “Liyara, this is Garak – Nilan – do you remember him?” he asked carefully, looking up at her. She just looked perplexed as the tailor smiled at her, and Nall sighed, squeezing her hand a little and rubbing her fingers.

“Before you end this communication, do you know if you would be willing to meet him on subspace?” Garak asked, “I would be willing to arrange this if it could be enough to fulfill his wish to meet you, so he may not need to go all the way to Cardassia.”

“No,” answered Nall after a while, “I… would prefer to meet him in person. I’d like to know how he gets along with my wife and my son before I make any decision at all. If you’re right, and his mother loves him enough to blackmail _me_ , then she will agree to stand trial for what she has done. Then, and only then, can I legally recognize him as my child. By now, the public has pity for me, I believe they would take my side if they learned that in my youth, my own child was stolen from me by… an alien.” Garak nodded and smiled.

“Here is a key,” he sent the program, “to generate further encryption codes if we need further communications, which I suppose will be required.” He looked at Liyara with soft blue eyes. “I am glad I could see you,” he addressed her even though he knew she remembered him not – she was still a person and still capable of perceiving emotions, he was certain. “It is heartwarming to see your husband supports you so much.” His heart pinched terribly as he pronounced those words, and he had to steel himself. “Thank you for the books, Rokat. Take care.”

“The same to you,” Nall nodded, then straightened up a little, clearing his throat, “Wait, tell him… my son… tell him I’m sorry,” he said hastily – in the corner of his eye, his wife was smiling serenely at Garak, not minding her husband’s change in mood much. “I should have understood. I should have tried harder to find out why she left, I shouldn’t have assumed it was because of me,” he sunk back in the chair and hugged his wife’s hand to his cheek, drying his tears there, pretending she did it for him, like she had in the past, “That is all,” he mumbled and ended the transmission.

In the sanctity of his workshop, Garak looked at the screen even after the picture disappeared. How was he supposed to tell Melekor this? And how angry would the young man be at him for meddling in this the way he did? The tailor sighed to himself and rested his forehead on his hand, slouching a bit miserably. Liyara used to be such a splendid woman in her radiant brilliance. Sharp-witted, smart, amazingly empathetic, gentle and caring. Their couple was an example of Cardassian success, up to the way Rokat fended himself from his enemies – at least, thinking of the affair with (formerly Gul) Reyal made Garak brighten up a bit. Although he still held a pinch of guilt and severe disappointment with previous events, the trial had been a very amusing one, and Rokat owned his victory only to himself.

Decided to dwell on those positive feelings (rather than on the harm he’d secretly caused to that family), Garak collected a rod on which to download the books to deliver them to Julian first. He considered a second to ask for his advice, but dumped the idea right away.

That was stupid.

One simply couldn’t ask a most candid Human overly excited over people discovering alien family members to figure out a valuable piece of advice in the context Garak had to deal with. Oh, well, he shrugged, he could always have Melekor drink his share of Kanar first. After all, wasn’t it what Melekor himself had done in the first place with him?

## * * *

It had been a long day’s work at the Grand Central of Military Archives, but Glain felt proud of having tackled three weeks’ worth of files to archive in only one day, thanks to the program he’d compiled during the past three days, while traveling for a repair mission on Loval – which meant he’d have as much time to dedicate to more personal projects while his superior thought him to be working. Glain had a strong suspicion that she _knew_ he worked on adapting popular books into holonovels during his shifts, but found him to be efficient enough not to report his misconduct. After all, everybody won in this situation: Glain was still the most efficient archivist of the Bajoran Department of Colonial Maintenance, Chief Archivist Malena benefitted from those good results, and he regularly paid a drink to his colleagues and friends with some of the extra lek he made.

That night was one such night; Sulek Maten and Glain had left the office right on time to join friends around a bottle of Kanar. Iltarel seemed quite amused that Najal had brought a girl again – why the woman kept on doing this to him was beyond Glain. He wasn’t interested in girls who were interested in him, and rather wished Najal could be the one to maybe start considering the proposition he’d slipped on a drunken night. Beyond the alcohol, his words had been most honest… but it was too early yet for such a decision – he had higher plans for a career, and he could probably find a mate of higher status and higher skills.

His life was planned with adamant perfection.

 

The boy was quite jolly as he entered his home. He tried to be discreet as he shuffled out of his raincoat, in case his parents were already asleep, but was surprised to find his father passed out in the small sofa under the kitchen’s window. The youth sobered up at once – or at least, he cast away the artificial joy of Kanar, resuming to a serious and wary composure.

“Father?” he called him quite gently and went to the replicator to get some tea for them both – he would usually brew it, but felt a bit too clumsy for this when alcohol still ran in his blood, and he wasn’t going to bother the housekeeper at such an hour. The sound of the cups as he set them on the table had Nall jolt awake.

He blinked but relaxed as his son sat at the table. _Glain_. The old man smiled. His heart was wide with pride in his chest as he took in the sight of him, of what his child had become and was still becoming. These might very well be the last moments for the both of them, and he selfishly dragged them out, smiling at the bittersweet flavour of his thoughts. At last, he dragged himself too, to sit in front of his son, where a cup had been laid for him.

“I have something I must tell you,” he spoke it like it was a death sentence, straightening up in his chair, ignoring the tea – he was in no mood for tea – “it’s for the best if you could stay seated and... take a deep breath.”

Glain stilled on his chair, serious. They’d had grave discussions before – about his mother of course, and when Gul Reyal had tried to drag them in scandals, but something felt different this time. Still, Glain couldn’t help but wonder if he’d committed any mistake, any error, if he’d grown too confident… Had he? He didn’t trust anyone, and it didn’t seem to him like this in itself could be an error either…

“I’m listening,” he just answered, formal and dignified. If he had done wrong, he would receive the sentence. If his father had done wrong, he would support him. Now that Liyara was fading away, no one loved Nall more than Glain did, and for all the disagreements they had, that was still a lot. To the public eye, they were a perfect Cardassian family, there was nothing they would not survive, and determination shone in the boy’s vivid green eyes – Nall, however, looked down, too uncomfortable with himself to face the sweet loyalty that was his son. The moment when that devotion would turn into scorn wasn’t something the elderly Cardassian particularly wanted etched into his memory.

“Three years before I met your mother – five years before I had you,” he set the time period, “I acted as the personal guide and host for a foreign author. Central Command had decided that it was in Cardassia’s interest to have this _alien_ woman come here to write a book on our justice system – I guess, for some reason, they found her trustworthy, and that the image she intended to paint of us would aid our outwards image, to keep people on their toes,” the idea in itself wasn’t half-bad, though he had to admit he hindsightedly found it to have been a decision made in very poor taste.

“As I was young back then,” he continued, “and not yet as popular as I am now, the choice of host fell on me. It was an honorable appointment, and it consisted of three tasks: to keep an eye on her, to answer her questions, and to try and get as much out of her as possible, about her prior visit to Romulus –” he paused, twitched a little and sighed – “she’d written a similar book there, I guess that’s what inspired the Central Command to indulge her. I think they were impressed – _I_ was impressed,” he made a disgusted face at his younger self, then shrunk. “I fell in love with her,” he confessed without much care for the bluntness he was offering now – Glain’s eyes rounded but he didn’t judge him yet. “She stayed with me for a year, and what a year! She was brilliant, Glain,” he looked at him briefly, as if surely, his son must agree, then he retreated to his submissive avoidance of eye contact. “My parents were unhappy. Melekor in particular hated her, and there were times when he said things about the Central Command that... were not so wise to have been said,” he made a small grimace. “I couldn’t have cared less, Glain. I proposed to her, behind the back of my parents,” he leaned back, trying the waters for an initial response from Glain.

The young man was already listing in his mind all the anchors for blackmail and picturing his grandparents’ reactions with a certain ease. His grandfather in particular was very proper and protocolar – in public, at least. In private, he’d been prone to violence and constant frustration as he constantly battled with his high levels of oleosterone in order to keep a cool, calculating head despite the heat of his blood. Not that he was really good at this, but at least, he’d softened a bit in his old years.

“You fell in love with an alien,” Glain briefed calmly and factually. “I believed it happened to many operatives during the Occupation of Bajor, even among the highest ranks, and yet we closed our eyes on many cases. I don’t think anyone would attempt to blackmail you on such a light ...motive,” he kept understanding. His own love life had been used for squander and scandal attempts, after all, although grounded on a different sort of immoral love. “I suppose you wouldn’t be so grave if it were just this…” he said more dryly. “You were young, a bit foolish… but you grew up to an outstanding career and family life. So what else happened?” he studied the display of shame in front of him. “What _sort_ of alien was she? Romulan?” he made a guess.

“Betazoid,” Nall revealed and his son froze entirely. It was especially humiliating for the Conservator that, out of all the species in the quadrant, he’d fallen for the one that was considered to be simultaneously the most naïve and the most potentially dangerous – a pathetic species, yes, weak-hearted and pacifist, but gifted with telepathic abilities that the entire universe could certainly be thankful they weren’t using as a weapon. Glain read about them and remembered that they supposedly didn’t lie, but he couldn’t believe any sentient species to be incapable of lying when nothing was more subjective than truth. If they didn’t lie to others, then they had to lie to themselves, at least. But there was worse. Betazoids looked just like Humans, and this meant he’d been mistaken about one thing. One thing he could in no way reveal to his father.

“And so…” he took a hoarse breath and had to drink some tea to wet his throat and his mouth. And yet another deep breath before he could finally phrase himself. He felt dizzy and tried hard not to look at his emotions, nor at anything else for all that matter. “ _What_ is she using to blackmail us?” he focused back.

“It’s not blackmail, Glain. It’s…” the old man wasn’t sure how to say it, so he decided to continue with the story. “What happened is that she said no,” he said and took a deep breath, “She explained that she couldn’t live with the idea that she had ruined my career and severed me from my family. She told me that my father was right, that I should listen to him. And then, one month later,” he made a sweeping gesture in the air, “she was gone. Just like that. Oh, I pursued her, I pursued her like any young man should pursue the woman of his life – I sent message after message, even gifts. She never once bothered to answer, and my gifts were returned to me. Melekor much appreciated her sense of discretion. And in time, so did I,” he folded his hands, then extended his indexes and leaned forwards, pinching the ridge of his nose between them. “It took me two years, but eventually I gave up on her and moved on with my life. I treasured her last gift to me, which was my life, and I made the best out of it. I met _your_ mother, and found to my great surprise that I was capable of loving another, just as deeply – no, no, _deeper even_ , for there will never be a woman as dear to me as your mother,” he swallowed. He would have beamed sunnily at her mention, if not for her current sorry state. “She took the painful shards right out of my chest, mended what had once been broken, and she made me whole. And then we had you,” he smiled, tears gathering in his eyes, “and nothing else mattered. Except, I was wrong,” he took a deep breath, then let his hands fall to his lap, staring at them through the distorted view offered to him by his wet eyes.

“I have been a fool, all my life. Ywanna Kel – she never was the unselfish woman I took her for,” he clenched his hands into fists, “She didn’t leave to spare me, it was a lie, _a Betazoid lied to me_ , and I believed her.” Glain would have been otherwise smug that his suspicions were confirmed, but in this moment, he was ravaged inside and Nall got to his feet to walk over to the window, because he desperately wanted to forget that his son was with him in the room in this moment.

“She left, because she was with child. My child,” he traced the window frame with his fingers; the rounded portal felt like the shell of an egg around him, and he was breaking through, “You have an older brother, Glain. She named him Melekor.”

As the final bomb dropped, Glain was blown away. He’d tried to shield himself, but horror took over, tearing him apart and shuffling the pieces. His brain reacted quickly, reordering priorities to better shield him where he was vulnerable, and finally allowed the youth to get upset. Not only was that bastard _elder_ sibling a _male_ -

“That is _not_ acceptable!” he slammed his cup on the table and got up at once, shaking with rage inside – Nall shrunk on himself. Glain moved toward the window, agitated. Unsure what to do with himself, he crossed his arms so not to flail them, and leaned against the wall, trying to recover more composure. He was tense however, and it showed way too much.  “This name has to be changed, it is an _insult_ to our family!” he decided. “How dared she pass the name of a respected man onto a _half-breed!?_ ”

“I think his _name_ is the least of our problems, Glain,” Nall started carefully, as he figured he would have to explain this to his son, as if his son was an idiot, which currently he was, “Do you not understand what it would do to my reputation if this reached the public eye? If I were to acknowledge him as my lawful son, I’d lose my place in society, my status. _You_ would be ridiculed and your only hope would be to disassociate yourself from me – which, if you love me, you would.”

“Of course, I _know_ ,” Glain tried not to flare up again. “But there is _no_ way he’s coming here, right? The Bureau of Alien Affairs will never allow it, and you will never recognize him…” he looked at his father, refusing to let that one doubt taint his vision of him any further. “He wasn’t raised on Cardassia, there is _no_ place for him here. If he’s got some telepathic abilities from his mother, all we can hope for is that the _voles_ would have some use for him, so we never have to hear about him ever again,” he mentioned the Obsidian Order in a way their cameras’ audio filter couldn’t pick. “But this is _not_ going to happen, because we can prevent it. I will investigate discreetly and evaluate the amount of persons who may know of this or figure it out,” he started to plan the battle.

“No!” Nall surprised himself with the force he managed to put into that single word – the snap surprised the young man like a cold shower. He even shivered as he looked at his father again, seeing the shadow of his grandfather in expression and attitude. Glain gulped and Nall regretted his outburst. As understandable as Glain’s anger was, it fuelled his own, and in an opposite direction so. “No,” he tried the word again, calmer this time, “you have no idea where this path goes, but I assure you, it is not one you want to be on. If you want to help me, I need you to clean my records. Thirty years worth of them. I want them pristine – that gives her less to go on. I am your father,” he marked starkly, as he suspected Glain would retort, “you _will_ do as I say.”

“And what is it you intend to do, Father?” the son asked with a slight treble to his voice, looking at him removing himself from the window and walking aimlessly across the room. “You know I’ve always been on your side and I always will… You are my father, and _I_ am _your_ son…” he still felt the need to specify, as he was somewhat unsettled and ...worried. Nall wasn’t being like himself. Admittedly, he hadn’t been like himself for the two past years, at least, but this was yet another level of… alienitude. This whole situation felt unreal. Glain followed the man at a distance, wishing to be closer, but feeling like a forcefield kept him at bay somehow. Shame, probably, fueled it.

“I love you… no matter what you’ve done… I _will_ do as you say,” he finally had the courage to reach a hand on his shoulder. “You are the most amazing man I’ve ever known,” he smiled, “but I need to know where we’re headed to. What else do we know? And who else knows about this? How did you learn?” he returned to more strategic questions, raising his gaze up to the warm brown eyes.

“No,” the Conservator replied softly. “You are better off without this information,” he decided and turned around, slowly, to reach his hands to his son. He stroked both his cheeks before holding his face gently between his fingers. Glain was a man, but he somehow never ceased to be the newborn child Nall had held in his arms twenty-two years ago. Warmth spread in his chest, and he smiled ever so softly at that child, looking into those questioning green eyes.

“You make me proud each and every day, when I wake up and when I go to bed,” the old man bent forth and pressed their foreheads together, “What you _need to know_ is up to me, Glain. But you are young, and it is in your nature to rebel. As a father, it is in my nature to forgive, and embrace,” he loosened the grip and instead folded his arms around his son, burying his nose in his hair. “I only hope, that you can find it within you, to forgive me for what I’ve done, and for what I will do. But I would not blame you, if you do not. You are more than my son; you are a _Cardassian_. Never forget that.”

The words were confusing because Glain _refused_ to understand them. To think of the implications. He sighed softly as he hugged his father back. It felt almost strange. The man, while taller than him, wasn’t as tall as he used to be, because Glain had grown up, and he wasn’t as confident-looking as he used to be, because he’d withered so much for the past three years that Glain could feel the bones under the skin, through the clothes. It made the boy feel plump in comparison, and it was worrying, because Glain was quite lithe.

“Fine,” he nodded at last. “But do me a favor, Father. Eat something with me. You have almost no body left on those bones… I need you,” he felt his throat swell as he pronounced those words. He had to silence himself not to betray the emotion strangling him, and squished his old man in his arms a bit. “You can pick whatever, but pick something,” he begged. Give it to his son to practice emotional blackmail like that, Nall huffed. He had to admit he wasn’t the least bit hungry, and it was quite annoying how Glain kept nagging him.

“Something light, then,” he disentangled himself from his son and led him to the table, before paying the fridge a visit, picking leftovers – broth for himself, and some fried bird-with-eggs for Glain. He heated them, then returned to the table with his bowl in one hand, and Glain’s serving in the other. He sat Glain’s plate by his chair, his own bowl by his own, and stopped behind the third chair. He wondered what she would have had to say about all of this. Liyara had known about his short-lived romance; he hadn’t plotted to keep it from her, but neither of them had thought much about it. She’d probably just let it pass, _because_ nothing had come of it.

He sat on his chair and looked at his broth. How could he possibly make Glain understand what he was going through?

“I want to meet him,” he blew on the hot soup and lifted the bowl, warming his hands on it, “I want _you_ to meet him.” Things had gone Glain’s way for but a few minutes. He looked at Nall in complete disbelief.

“Why should _I_ meet him when he’ll bring nothing but shame and ruin to both of us, Father? Not to mention Uncle Enjam… I don’t understand.” It didn’t make any sense… especially considering all the man said just before, how he encouraged his son to disassociate. “Mother and I _are_ your family…”

Nall put the soup bowl down with a loud clack, nearly spilling hot liquid over his hands. He wasn’t even sure where to start with his reasoning, as he knew everything he had to say on it would fall on deaf ears – Glain was a much better Cardassian than himself. He’d always known that; it was what simultaneously made him proud and annoyed _all_ the time.

“I have been violated,” he finally decided to phrase himself in a way that might make his son a bit more cooperative – which worked, at first. “Ywanna robbed me of what, by law, is rightfully mine. And if you think that’s bad, please consider what _I’ve_ done. This is _my_ fault,” he took his bowl again. “Before you blame my bastard son for existing, perhaps you should look at me. I’m the reason he exists at all, I’m responsible. And I don’t intend on running from my crime. If you love me, you _will_ give him a chance.”

“What do you mean, give him a chance? He has no stat-” he froze as he realized what his father intended to do. “You intend to recognize him legally,” he said almost without a voice. He suddenly felt a bit high again, and quite intoxicated too. For a few seconds he was unsteady and held himself to the table, his future passing in front of his eyes like a dying vision. Then a bitter drunken laughter left him, and he brought a piece of bird meat to his mouth to regain focus.

“Well, if you are going to do this, I don’t know what you expect of me,” he shook his head. “To give him a chance? Of what? You know what will happen… You… _can’t_ possibly do this…!” a shrill of despair brought Glain’s voice to a higher pitch. “Do you really want to force me to disassociate? To make me an orphan?”

“You wouldn’t be an orphan! You have an uncle who loves you,” Nall sniped.

“ _You_ are my father, and Enjam is a _glinn_ . _A childless_ , _unenjoined glinn!_ ” the youth marked each word and stared at his father like he’d just said the most absurd thing. “Are you trying to trade me off? And for what? A bastard who will never have a place in our society?” he stabbed his meat. “I can accept and support your soft and kind heart, Father, but _this_ is a social suicide and I cannot allow it! You need time to think over it and get your feet back on the ground…” The Conservator was quite certain that a normal father would’ve utilized his force as head of house at this point – Melekor would have – but Nall found that he had no such fire in him to draw on.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he told the other quite gently, “that’s why I want you to give him a chance. I need to know who it is I decide to reject, or embrace. Please, Glain…” he reached out for his son’s hand, “I lost him once already, don’t make this any more difficult for me than it already is.”

Glain rested an elbow on the table and held his head. He closed his eyes as to shield himself from pain, and finally gave his father his hand too, stroking his fingers with profound affection. After a moment, he felt confident enough that he should be able to speak without letting the flurry of emotions take over him again.

“I love you… I don’t want to lose you… even if that means I might have to lose you in the end, in the eyes of administration,” he opened his eyes again, the green of his eyes more diluted than before. “I love you for who you are. I know I annoy you just as much as you do me sometimes but… I love you. I only hope this love won’t be what will break us apart,” he breathed slowly, conscious of the movement of his ribs, of the flow of air through him… “But if meeting him is all you desire, wouldn’t an encrypted subspace communication be enough?” he asked. “In anyway, this meeting cannot take place on Cardassia.”

“The day you hold a newborn infant in your arms, you’ll understand why I have to meet him,” Nall smiled and folded his other hand around Glain’s as well, capturing him. The idea that he might have to let him go was agony. “Will it redeem him just a little bit to you, if I told you he actually doesn’t care to be legally recognized? I... I just want my two only sons to get along, if there’s even the slimmest sliver of a chance that, that we could all be a family. That you could be his brother, and he yours.”

“I don’t know,” Glain said honestly. “He would be my elder… and he probably won’t understand anything about our culture if he’s been raised on his mother’s land. Those Betazoids seem so strange!” he looked at his father, then realized in which way it might be insulting. “At least those in the textbooks seem like they must be extremely daft, barely functional creatures.” He exhaled and looked down, as if his dish could give him advice. “If he’d been a girl, it would have been easier,” he admitted. Maybe he should renew his marriage proposition to Najal. Secure himself in an alliance and social status before it was too late. ...To think that just a few hours ago the world was at his hand. What a waste. Nall sighed.

“I think you will find, that the real world is not very textbook-like,” he pointed out quite sharply to Glain, sliding in some very real survival advice, “Think like that, and you’ll end up like me. I was a fool then, like you are now, and my prejudice was what ended me up in this mess.” Then he winced in disgust at himself, let Glain’s hand go and sat back. “I am aware I ask a lot of you,” he told his son, “but your half-brother will come here, to Cardassia, and he’ll meet me, you and your mother. The only thing you have any influence over, is how you choose to deal with it. I say it is so, therefore it is so.”

Glain looked at his father’s hand, then at him. He felt betrayed, and it was a lot more obvious than he wished for the emotion to transpire. He nodded, though, but said nothing. He couldn’t. He tried to just eat as if everything was normal, but the food hurt his swollen throat and he had to give up lest he’d start crying. How could he feel any good when his father had practically informed him that he was about to destroy everything he’d worked for and created, to discard even his own _only_ son…

No. Glain couldn’t swallow that, nor anything else. Whoever brought the news, he would find. And through this person, he would find _Melekor_. And then.

He’d figure out the rest soon…


	16. Day 13 - 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A twist in the plot~

# Part II

##    
Worlds Apart

  
  
  


* * *

## Day 13

Melekor had busied himself over the past two days; he’d removed the plating of the wall next to his bed, and studied the snaking innards hidden behind the bulkhead. In the occasion that he thought Timun wasn’t in the room, he’d done the same to the hardware surrounding the replicator – the differences and similarities to other replicators he’d worked on were simply fascinating, and he’d set to try and replicate one of his science projects on this Cardassian replicator, turning it into a transporter.

He could only beam small objects at a short range, of course, but it served a greater purpose, as he could now enjoy a ready order of eggs, without ever having to leave his bedroom – such a trick came in handy when one were at odd ends with one’s roommate, and the replicated eggs were nearly as good as the real thing.

This done, Melekor’s new project was to recreate a bit of a sauna for himself, so that he could lay around and toast in the heat while he meditated on mind control, and he’d started doing so by detaching and reattaching some of the wires to another circuit, to bypass certain restrictions in regards to environmental control. He was head first in the bulkhead when a door chime interrupted him. Naturally, he hit his head on the metal construct above him as he withdrew, swearing silently at himself as he got up. He brushed some dust off of his brown-orange work clothes, and opened the door with an air of annoyance.

“I’m working,” he flatly told to Timun.

“On what?” the other replied just as flatly and forcefully stepped in. He looked around, then back at Melekor. “So, I can’t try to make some coin while getting us rid of Romulan Ale, but  _ you  _ can mess the station’s systems without an authorization to do so…” he crossed his arms behind his back. “Do you feel like talking or should I go meet my good friend, Constable Odo, and see you put behind a force field, for a change?” he asked factually, cold and stereotypically Vulcan in his attitude.

“I was only bypassing the environmental controls to better adjust the room temperature to my needs. It’s hardly my fault that Starfleet modified the systems to introduce a maximum limit,” the engineer explained as he went to the bed, and sat on it, looking up at Timun. “You’d like to see me behind a forcefield?” he asked, half as a tease, half-serious, “I doubt there’s a need to bother Odo over my minor alterations…”

“If that’s what you say,” Timun gave no clue as to what he thought of Melekor’s answer. “You used me,” he told next, without any transition. “The question is whether you only seeked pain and pleasure, or whether you had further motives, such as having me pass for a rapist in order to discourage your mother from forcing me into being your doctor and teacher.” He felt calm, or at least, he felt nothing. Everything was distant and mechanical. Melekor’s cheeks went cold and pale in a second, and he couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped him.

“No!” Anxiety shot him straight up the belly and through his chest, and he had to get up to escape the restlessness that gripped him, hugging himself. “All I wanted was for you to beat me up – I didn’t even know it would turn me on,” he blushed at his own bold words and swallowed. His mouth felt dry with shock. “I- I honestly had no idea that would happen; I figured that since you were a doctor, no one would ever have to know. And now, I- I’m sorry.” His shoulders slumped, “It’s so embarrassing – do you think I would want for rumors of me getting raped to reach my father?” he looked at Timun like he was the most illogical creature in the room. “I had no idea things would unfold the way they did. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Not embarrassed enough that you’d care about your mother finding about all this by reading my mind,” Timun pointed. “Or was it shame that prevented you from presenting me your apologies and helping me to hide this information?”

Melekor stared at Timun. “Are you daft for real?” he asked sharply, his voice laced with malicious amusement. “There’s  _ nothing _ I could teach you in the span of even  _ years _ that would help you against what she’s capable of. Nothing!” he finally breached, bursting out in a laughter born from disbelief. “She has trained me since I was a child, and not even  _ I _ can withstand her assaults. You can’t hide from her, it’s not possible,” he withered back down on the bed, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Living without privacy is natural for Betazoids.” That was her excuse for denying him his. He felt rotten for shoving the same, weak excuse down Timun’s throat.

“I am not Betazoid,” Timun replied. “But I am not entirely daft.  _ I _ cannot resist her, but  _ we _ might fool her. If we meld, that’ll be the two of us, and we may stand a chance. It is not without risk, of course, but we are both willing to take it, because our personal goals are worth it,” he decided. “Yes. There is an underlying threat in those words.”

Melekor looked up at Timun. A shy shadow of a smile crossed his lips. There were three different feelings going through his mind at the same time: sorrow, resignation and attraction. The last one was a nice touch to the first two ones, and Melekor allowed himself to indulge a little in it, enough that he felt a prequel of arousal in his pants. The warmth was most welcome.

“This always happens, sooner or later. One of my mother’s lessons-by-proxy: never make friends. They turn against you in the end. Betray them before they betray you. She always ends up stealing my friendships from under me. I guess she considers I’m not worthy of them until such a day that I’ve managed to divert the inevitable betrayal – yes,” he got to his feet and walked up to Timun, standing uncomfortably close, “I’ve been blackmailed before, many times, but this is the first time I’ve found it hot.” A discrete movement animated Timun’s throat as he gulped, but kept composed. He diverted his gaze a bit still, as to put distance back between them without moving. His corporal temperature was rising, but that meant nothing.

“Will you meld and help me to fool your mother then?” he asked and gulped again.

“I don’t think it will work,” Melekor sidled up closer, inhaling Timun’s scent, filling himself with it, almost intimidated by his own primitive lust, “I’d have to be off my phelenaxinide to be of any substantial use to you, and I very much doubt your blocking techniques are anything remotely like mine – mine were designed to withstand telepathic wartimes. I am afraid that if you were to attempt a meld with me and succeed, I might end up splitting your mind into four independent sections, and that could seriously hurt you.” He raised on his toes, steadying himself against the Vulcan and indulged himself with a kiss. Pleasantly enough, the other didn’t stop him. If his life was going to be one of forced service now, Timun thought he may as well enjoy what little pleasure was to be found… or offered.

“And what if…” he murmured in between kisses, “I still want to try?” He flickered his eyelashes, as if it could offer him a different vision of Melekor, allow him to see him true and through. To understand what was going on maybe.  _ “Else, what do you think your mother will think of this?” _ he slipped in the other’s mind as he slipped his tongue inside his mouth.

“I  _ want _ her to know,” Melekor said when he recovered enough breath to talk, and laced the other’s chest with his fingers, running one hand up into the Vulcan’s orderly hair, feeling its softness. “Maybe if she knew what a harlot I am, she’d leave me the fuck alone. She won’t blame you, she’ll know I manipulated you, that I used you, she’ll blame me... But you,” he caressed Timun’s cheek, ending with his fingers against those soft, velvet lips, “she’ll think of you as my fucktoy. And it’s not even a lie.” He grinned a particularly Cardassian grin. A faint smirk finally started to break Timun’s neutral composure.

“I’m a  _ slut _ , right,” he admitted with honesty, starting to animate himself, fingers moving to fumble with Melekor’s work clothes; he felt the roughness of the fabric and leaned to inhale the other’s scent, “But you’re the painwhore, the perverted wreck,” he whispered to his ear. “So, do you want her to run in on us while we’re at it?” he asked. “I could agree to be your doctor if that sexual therapy’s what you truly need…” he licked the edge of an ear, setting the Cardassian on fire – Melekor could barely believe how much of an effect this man had on him when he’d always conceived himself as devoid of a sex drive. It was dizzying and he abandoned himself shamelessly to the whims of his body, whimpering at the sultry language the other poured right into his hungry mind.

“I want sex,” he admitted in crude honesty, “but I don’t want pain this time,” he held tight to the shoulders of Timun’s coat, feeling a bit light-headed, “I want to see if I can enjoy it without the pain.” Then a thought crossed his mind and he moved away from Timun and simply looked at him, a doubt slithered across his face. “Do you... why do you want me?” he asked sincerely all of a sudden.

“I’m not sure,” Timun admitted, a blushed warmth showing up in the softness of his voice. He looked at Melekor with attention and touched his face, stroking the ridge on his cheek with a thumb. “I might like you. For what little we have in common, it feels like I have more in common with you than anyone I’ve been with before. You’re infuriating and cute… I wish I could dislike you-” he kissed him- “you’re a sweet poison…” Another kiss. “I don’t expect you to feel more than lust for me,” his smile turned a bit sad. “Such hopes aren’t good for the heart,” he looked at him in the eyes, studying him. “Maybe you’re the reason I haven’t left the station to try and escape you mother’s blackmail. Yes… I must like you, because my behavior is far too illogical to be explained otherwise.” The answer was so roundabout and lengthy, that in between the kisses, Melekor became certain it was all just an excuse not to tell the truth. To, in some way, spare him his emotions. He glared at him, hurt contempt arraying from the depths of his heart.

“You could have just told me that I’m repulsive and you enjoy repulsive things, there was no  _ need _ to make up a lot of absolute nonsense about emotions,” he swallowed and turned around, determined to get rid of his lust and get back to his work, somehow. The unexpected reaction kept the half-Vulcan stunned for a few seconds but not so long that he couldn’t just catch Melekor’s arm and force him to face him again.

“Don’t you walk away from me,” he shot. “I don’t care what you think of yourself, and neither should you when it comes to what  _ I _ think. If you really can’t stand the idea of being cute or handsome, fine, I won’t  _ say _ it, but you can’t stop me from finding you attractive. Call me exophiliac if you must,” he dragged him closer, “that’ll make two of us if you do. Do you find me repulsive?” he asked. “If it’s part of your degradation kink, you may as well tell me.” His expression hardened as a weak way to hide a sting of pain.

The half-Vulcan’s grip on Melekor’s arm was hard enough to leave bruises, which did nothing to turn him off, rather the opposite. And the Cardassian disgusted himself as he wondered if this was the only key to his sexuality, the one he’d been wondering about for so long.  _ Abuse? _ What was  _ wrong _ with him, with his body? He’d never be able to pursue a Cardassian relationship  _ like this _ . He was  _ too weird _ . Too fucked up. No one would want him. No one but Timun. Timun wanted him. He closed his eyes and leaned against the Vulcan-Trill’s chest, soon shrouded in his long arms.

“I don’t  _ have _ a kink,” he finally mumbled into his chest, “I don’t  _ have _ a sexuality. I don’t know what this is, where it came from. I don’t know how it reflects on you, what your role really is,” he shivered a little. “I find you to be... strong and capable. A good candidate to approach for protection, and a good match for Savras.”

“You can deny all you want if it’s what you need to feel safe, but if protection is what you need, lying to yourself in the first place is a poor choice. It is harder to protect what you don’t know,” the Vulcan-Trill caressed the black hair, digging his fingers in it, and caught it to pull on it a bit and control the other’s gaze, dipping himself in the pitch black wells. “Now… do what you want with this but… I thought that  _ maybe _ you could enjoy to be my mate for pon’farr. If you wish…” he blushed as he murmured the proposition. “I’ll need someone  _ enduring _ ,” he explained. “It may get rough…” So this was where Timun had been trying to get him with those honeyed words of him, this was what he needed him for: pon’farr. Now, that made more sense to Melekor’s paranoid Cardassian brain.

“And I’m a convenient and logical choice based on my response to pain,” he blinked slowly. “So I really am just an object to you, after all. Oh, I don’t mind. It makes it better; it gives me a purpose.” Timun looked at him with more concern. 

He could tell him “if that’s what you want to be,” and go with it; it would be an easy option on the short run, but instead he let go of him and took a step back. “I don’t,” he said and turned on his heels, facing the door. “If you need me to quench your lust, you may come to me and I’ll oblige, but I don’t think it will happen, because it is my desire for you that turns you on. My attention, my attraction to you, my possessiveness… You’ve internalized specism enough to think very poorly of yourself, but deep down, you yearn for someone to break -not you, but this self-hatred plaguing you.” He glanced above his shoulder, “You can objectify yourself if you want, I can even play along… but this is not how I see you, nor what I feel for you. I’ll pass on the sex this time because I don’t want to comfort you in this hurtful vision of my feelings,” he informed him and went for the door, leaving a horny, hurt and disappointed Cardassian behind.

 

# 

#  Day 14

 

Some thirty two hours later, as Timun looked at the back of Ywanna’s head, he had to wonder how exactly the current situation came to be. It probably started sometime during the dinner he and Melekor last shared, as an attempt to discuss the ‘situation’. It was when Timun’s idea came to be, following the concept of ‘ _ Show, don’t tell. _ ’ While Melekor spent the next morning halfway inside the bulkhead again, Timun let Ywanna know that her son had agreed to a training session in the afternoon, which gave him time to rearrange the living room, with the couch facing the entrance and the low table in front of it. On it, he’d aesthetically displayed replicated items – innocent in their individuality but suggesting a kinky theme together. He was pacing to the sound of  _ Joined in Filth _ , clad in a black gown, when Ywanna arrived.

“Oh, I see,” she said, not entirely without humour, “arguing semantics, are we? Let’s see how well that goes for you. Just pretend that I’m not here – if you can,” she went to the replicator as her son too joined the room, and got herself a cup of tea. Timun hadn’t expected less of a Betazoid but didn’t let her bother him as he lounged himself in the couch, and Melekor sat on his lap. The Cardassian wasn’t as bold as he’d been in his words before, but he submitted to Timun rather than to his mother as she tried to penetrate his mind. He did not let her in, but when Timun tried to meddle in the psychic fight, Melekor took the toll as well. Ywanna broke through the encryption and down his second layer of defense – pure phobic fear projected onto her. Under normal circumstances, she would have laughed at Timun’s own empathic attack – sheer Vulcan strength, intense emotions slithering like serpents made of chains – but it added a new dimension to the fear she tried to dominate. A dimension she wasn’t sure she could resist.

But then, something unexpected happened; Melekor’s bubble of terror burst, and she found herself in the dark, isolated. Normally, his maze had some sort of sensual indications dotting it, to help him design the outlay, but this time, there was literally nothing but blackness. She couldn’t even feel her surroundings, and had no idea whether she was advancing or not. It was really rather remarkable: it meant he’d been working on perfecting his skills  _ a lot _ since they last sparred. It made her proud, even though the timing was really very unfortunate. But Timun didn’t let her dwell on this feeling for long. He bounced off the couch and, in a second, he’d caught Ywanna’s arm and flipped it in her back. He wasn’t too soft when he pinned her face against the wall, his free hand locked behind her skull.

And so, there he stood, looking at the back of her head. The physical contact allowed him to increase the violence of his attack as he unleashed his emotions, pressing them on her. It wasn’t even half of what he knew himself to be capable of, but he took in consideration that the woman wasn’t Vulcan – he didn’t aim to kill her nor to ravage her.

He truly had no idea of what this woman was capable of however, nor of how insignificant his attempt was, or of how lucky he was that she valued avoiding a scene with station security more than the satisfaction of what she could do to him.

“Remove yourself from him now,” he growled at her.

But then, there was a metallic sound followed by a shock at the back of his own head. Somehow, the pain wasn’t near as intense as the surprise when Timun turned to Melekor and saw him armed with the pair of shackles he’d picked from the table. Timun’s emotions vanished in an instant and he let go off Ywanna, backing against the wall and sliding down onto the floor, arms lamely protecting his face. He didn’t even try to defend himself, nor did he let out a single cry as he realized how much of an idiot he’d been once more, trying to help someone who didn’t need him in the first place. There was nothing to say and so Timun said nothing.

Ywanna stepped back to watch the situation from further away, a satisfied smile on her lips. Her son was still loyal to her, when forced to choose. She wished she wouldn’t have had to do so, but he really had forced her hand this time. Melekor on his behalf simply stared at Timun, his hand twitching as if he wanted to swing the metal at him again, but at last, he dropped it on the floor, and then kicked it away.

“You can leave,” he said, and although he was looking at his Vulcan friend, it was clear that he meant the words for his mother. When she didn’t immediately do as he said, he turned to stare at her, “I said  _ LEAVE! _ ”

As Ywanna complied, she left behind a chuckle to linger in the room and in the Cardassian’s ears. She always won, in the end. Taking a deeper breath, Melekor glared down at the mess at his feet. A good portion of him wanted to kick Timun, and he could vividly imagine himself kicking at his throat.

“If you ever touch my mother again, I  _ will _ kill you,” he warned him between clenched teeth, then sat on his heels in front of the Vulcan, reaching out a hand to part his arms, stroke his hair, “...and I don’t want to do that,” he told him in a more gentle voice, looking at the dark circles his silent tears formed on the floor. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He’d never thought he’d see a crying Vulcan, and his own role in the whole ordeal haunted him, “Come,” he reached his hand to the other as he got up, “I’ll get you a blanket and some tea, and if you feel any worse, I’ll escort you to the infirmary.” Timun caught the hand but didn’t get up, nor did he dare look at Melekor. He wondered how he was supposed to continue living with such a wound etched in his heart and brain. He felt dirty, violated, and everything was his fault.

“Flush me out an airlock,” he begged with a broken voice. “I’m a disaster… I’m nothing… lost… a coward,” he let out a hazy mixture of words. He sniffled and finally raised his watery gaze, looking at the grey shape in front of him. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I’m disgusting,” he closed his eyes and let his hands drop down and hit the floor with a mat sound – who had internalized specism, now? Melekor chose to let the comment pass, simply walking over to the replicator, where he replicated a very fluffy black blanket along with a cup of warm, honeyed Krellian petal tea. Once back at the other, he squatted and wrapped the blanket over him, then set the cup of tea in his hands by picking each of them and forcing them to hold on.

“You are right, you  _ don’t _ deserve my kindness,” he agreed finally, “but  _ I _ deserve to give it. And it would be rude of you to decline.” Timun accepted the cup of tea but didn’t know what to do with it, somehow.

“What happens now?” he hiccuped. “I… don’t want…” he looked down his feet, toes writhing outside the blanket, wriggling to catch its soft material and cling onto it. What words left him after were but a mess, “I don’t even know what I feel… What I want or not… I’m so sorry! I wanted to…! And. It didn’t work at all! Your mother…” he cried, holding onto the cup and salting the tea with tears.

“You will have to teach me. That’s what happens now,” Melekor said as a kindness, “I should not have resisted her wishes to begin with, I should have predicted it would end like this, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I put you in harm’s way. If I could, I would release you from your word – but you gave it to her, not me. You betrayed us both with an oath that is now irreversible – and please, don’t think of running. Those who tried never got very far.” He sat down, cross-legged, “She has a way of getting out on top.”

“You don’t understand…” Timun murmured. Melekor had just confirmed all of his suspicions. “The only question is… do  _ you _ want to learn?” he looked at him, eyes turned greener by his Vulcan blood.

“Yes,” he wet his lower lip, “because I don’t want to hurt you. And if I don’t submit and learn, you  _ will _ get hurt. And I will be responsible.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Timun sniffled, breathing to still himself some more. “She will have me killed anyway, right? If not now, then later, when I have taught you enough, when you go to Cardassia. You see…” he swallowed some tea, letting the liquid burn his throat and the bold flowery taste fill his mouth, “I have done something terrible, and she knows of it. And certainly, she wouldn’t want to risk that a disgusting creature such as me might end up reflecting bad on you,” he looked at him. At how beautiful and noble he was, even with his messy hair. Melekor frowned to a squint, studying Timun for signs that he was being overly dramatic or similarly exaggerating. When there were no signs of such, he shook his head.

“My mother is many things, some of them borderline illegal, but a  _ murderer? _ How dare you insinuate something so… vile,” he made some distance between them, “I know you hate the shit out of her because she insinuated she might blackmail you – which she never would – but honestly? Your paranoia is not very charming at all. And as for whatever you did, I don’t want to know it.”

“Then what about we test this all out?” Timun suggested. “If it’s all but insinuations and paranoia, maybe I should pack my things and take the next shuttle back to Trill?” he suggested seriously. “I could even take the Levossa, see Savras during the trip…” he pronounced her name with a fondness that made him realize how he missed her.

“The Levossa should be here by tonight; if you ask Quark, he might have discount tickets available; I have a feeling someone should’ve picked up where I left off by now,” Melekor chimed in, though he didn’t feel good at all about Timun’s new plans.

“Tonight” Timun repeated with fake enthusiasm, “Perfect! Then I’ll buy a ticket and we’ll see how exactly it goes,” he decided, still failing to sound joyful.

Melekor felt like the universe itself had taken him its grip and squeezed him into a small, small version of himself. It hurt, but he forced himself to accept it. Timun wouldn’t be the first friend to drop him like a hot potato – there was a reason very few of them had stayed in touch with him. Savras was the only one bold enough to stick to him and because of it, she and his mother had settled on some kind of neutral relationship that laid somewhere between mutual animosity and affection. But for the rest... Maniel had gone missing, presumably dead. Nakam  _ was  _ dead, and after his brother’s death, Torim had grown distant, as Melekor’s friendship reminded him of times he’d never get back. And then there was Arkadyen, the bastard, who had gotten himself Joined and fucked off at the speed of light – quite literally.

Adulthood friends were harder to make and keep than childhood friends. It was a mystery to Melekor; he was good at making people like him, but it was superficial. Like infatuation, feelings were intense, protective, and then a switch flicked off, and he was no longer interesting to them, sometimes because of his mother. Oftentimes, he suspected, because of he himself. It had to be something he did. Then Timun raised his pitiful voice again.

“I’d like to keep contact with you however… In case anything happens… To, you know, be sure you’re alright,” he eyed at him. “I really wish I’d dislike you,” he shook his head.

“I’ll miss you,” Melekor said, finally getting to his feet to go to the replicator, where he asked for a bowl of sweet, spicy chocolate soup. Then he took it in his hands, turned to look at the room, gazing over the display Timun had spent so much time putting together. For Melekor, somehow. He still couldn’t understand what it had been for.

“Are you sure?” Timun asked at last, “Or do you mean you’re going to miss the sex and violence? The protection maybe? You didn’t want me to be your friend, only your ally… and this, I’ll remain. If you’re going to miss more than my services however…” the Vulcan wet his lips but didn’t finish his sentence, looking down a bit instead and sipping on his tea.

“What’s the difference?” the Cardassian asked, completely honest, “Of course I’ll miss your protection; I’m on a station full of Bajorans, if you hadn’t already noticed,” he sniped a glance at the other. “We only had sex once, and I only enjoyed your violence  _ once _ ; it hasn’t happened since, so I assume since I didn’t miss it yet, I won’t miss it either if I stay abstinent,” he sipped again, then continued, “But please, do indulge me, what’s the difference between me missing  _ you _ and me missing the  _ benefits of you? _ Aren’t those just the same thing but with different perspectives?”

“Is that how you see people?” Timun asked bluntly, looking as the other went to sit on the couch. “I’m not going to miss just what you could have brought me… I’m going to miss seeing your eyes, feeling the temperature of your body, the texture of your skin and the shape of your scales – especially those ridges around your eyes… I’m going to miss your scent, your beautiful voice, the way you move. Your infuriating complexity,” he smiled fondly, sadly, gazing distantly as if Melekor were already a faded memory. “And I’m going to regret I didn’t make you happier.” Melekor finished his soup rather quickly and set the bowl on the floor.

“That is all very fascinating, but nothing you’ve said refutes any of my points – all my physical and aesthetic assets are  _ benefits _ to you, are they not? If I were a scorched monster, you wouldn’t miss me half as much. Shallow, really,” he leaned his elbow on the armrest, and his head on his hand, “You will miss your emotional response to my presence, which is yet another  _ benefit _ , and even less related to me than the previous ones; frankly, Timun, you’re no better than I. And yes,” he added arrogantly, “that  _ is _ how I view people – except, unlike you, I am at least honest about it.”

“Call it what you want, then. I know what I feel,” the Vulcan-Trill sighed. He felt like crying. To have unreciprocated feelings was a thing, to have them denied was another yet. “I’d like to tidy up,” he said, trying to sound more formal. “I’d rather you don’t look at me when I do it; it’s embarrassing and nauseating enough… Would you mind getting back to your room?” he managed to control his voice and expression though a few tears rolled down his cheeks again. Melekor dragged himself up to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Timun.

“Having made that clear,” he started walking towards the doors to his room, only speaking again once his back was turned to the other “I will miss you as a friend.” Timun didn’t turn to look back at him, nor did he say anything. He just huddled some more in the blanket and allowed himself to cry for a moment, comforting himself with the tea. He didn’t want to think of what he thought of himself, as it would only hurt. It wasn’t productive.

It took a while before he managed to get up and let go of the now-empty cup Melekor had given to him. Meticulously, he collected all the set up he put together so playfully before, trying to lock out all emotions but feeling bitter, sad and grim anyway. Each time he placed something in the replicator and made it disappear, he felt like a part of him too was disappearing. By the end of the cleaning, he felt empty and numb.

He looked at the mug and the blanket, and took them to his room before joining the bathroom to have a sonic shower at the highest possible pitch. He stayed in there for a while, even after his entire skin started to prick and burn from the intense scrubbing. Even his scalp started to hurt when he finally got out, so sore he almost felt wet. He didn’t bother to apply any lotion to his body before getting dressed, and simply went to gather his things and pack up. There wasn’t much to collect, and he added the blanket and the cup in his bag.

At last, he put on a scarf to hide his sad face and walked out to Quark’s, to order a ticket to board on the Levossa.

“You’re leaving? Like that?” the Ferengi was taken aback.

Timun just pushed the latinum further in his direction. He was too empty to speak unnecessary words. The other looked at him, worried, but obliged.

##  * * *

Three days in a row, the left thrusters had been giving them grief; docking was a pain in the behind, or so the pilot said. Savras, of course, knew that the source of all their strife was that no one knew the ship as well as Melekor, and with him gone, they’d run out of ‘luck’ soon enough; a mediocre pilot driving a mediocre ship was a recipe for inevitable disaster. She’d tried taking it up, but Jederza, the pilot, pinned her concerns on her being a nitpicky woman. It was really quite rude, though hardly surprising, considering he was half-Trill, half-bigot.

Docking had worked fine, their only damage being a minor scrape against the station’s docking clamps and a heated scolding from Major Kira – one that Savras secretly agreed with and took pleasure in hearing out. The way Jederza shrunk as each word was punctuated into him was about the most satisfying thing Savras had witnessed in the last forty-two hours.

Cleaning duty was hers again, and this pack of passengers had been particularly disgusting – candy wraps, empty ice cream bowls and used diapers dumped in random places were only the beginning of the very long list of offensive contents she had to deal with. About the only thing that kept her from resigning to total fury, was Major Kira’s heated argument with Jederza. Oh, Savras was going to live on that one for  _ a long time _ .

She joined Quark’s first thing after freedom got her in its claws. They weren’t due to leave for another six hours, and she was about done with everything.

“Get me a Starduster, extra strong,” she muttered to the man behind the bar while she took a seat, and slammed the latinum onto the counter with a little more frustration than she’d meant to let out.

“Harsh day, I hear,” the Ferengi grabbed three bottles and started to compose the cocktail with expert moves. “If you still have your eye on that Lykes boy, I might have some good news for you,” he suggested, eyes focused on the liquid he was pouring. “You might have him all for yourself soon. He just left to register his luggage on the Levossa; I suppose he’ll be heading back here in a moment,” he told almost innocently, though he let it be clear that there was more to it than just that.

“Let me guess,” she took a sip of the drink, grimaced with pleasure and sighed, “Melekor’s mother drove him away?” She straightened up in her seat, a tired expression taking over her features, “I don’t know who I feel the most sorry for: Melekor, who can’t keep a friend to save his life, or Lykes, who no doubt got to see more facets of Ywanna than he’d ever wished for. She’s insidious,” she added with a glint to her eye, “isn’t she?”

“Oh, I bet so…” Quark shrugged in agreement, holding greater concerns still. “I’m glad enough to be a Ferengi. Those Betazoid tricks don’t work on my kind… I’m not sure what she did to Lykes, but he… scared me,” he told in a lower voice. “I’ve seen people looking down, broken, devastated…” he shook his head. “That one looked more like he’d been sentenced to death.” He interrupted himself quite suddenly as he eyed to customers coming in. “Talking of him…” he muttered, diverting his eyes from the sad sight.

Timun walked to the bar, aiming to take the seat next to Savras. He felt like he was hovering through space, as if he weren’t really there. Still, he had identified the familiar figures and greeted them with a smile. A very sad smile. Savras set the drink down and turned to him. Quark was wrong; he didn’t look like he’d been sentenced to death, he looked like he was  _ already _ dead.

“Here, you need this more than me,” she shuffled the glass over to the next seat, patting the chair, “I hear you’re coming back to Trill. Any idea where you’ll stay at?” Timun nearly drank by reflex, but thankfully stopped with the glass at his lips. He looked at Savras and put the glass down.

“I need to get back home and take my sister with me. After… I don’t know where to go,” he admitted. He turned to Quark but was at loss for a specific order. “Give me something cleansing, but no alcohol.”

“Come on, I can’t serve you detergent! And nothing’s better than alcohol to wash away your worries,” Quark tried to insist.

“If you give me just one drop of alcohol, I’ll rape your corpse,” Timun replied factually. “Now you’re warned, get me something.”

“What about Lekisian tea?” the Ferengi suggested more politely and turned to the replicator.

“...Any idea where a half-Vulcan and an eight year-old girl could stay?” Timun asked Savras, somewhat pathetic. “Wait… Nobody here should know.”

“What about we go to my crew cabin aboard the Levossa?” she suggested and sipped her drink, “The only one who could overhear us there is Jederza, and I have a feeling he’s in OP’s arguing with their Major Kira Nerys,” both she and Quark grinned at that. “Starfleet was kind enough to offer us repairs to prevent further accidents, but Jederza is a stubborn old goat. I figured I’d ask Melekor to drop by later, but by the looks of you, approaching him now might be an accident in its own right. What did he do to you?” Savras asked. Timun dropped latinum on the counter and grabbed his mug of tea while getting down his seat, showing the way out.

“It’s a long story that you won’t like, I’m afraid,” he said softly, somehow managing to sweeten the bitterness. He took a sip from his mug and thought for a second that his mouth was getting dissolved by a burning acid brewed in the flames of an especially wrathful and vicious star. He gasped and his breath felt like an icy cold wind smoothing any possible roughness in his system. He glanced at Quark who observed his reaction with interest. “ _ Ss _ ank you,  _ z _ at’ _ th _ perfect,” he had to stretch his mouth and his tongue to even speak.

“Suit yourself and come back anytime,” the Ferengi smirked.

 

Savras led the way into the Levossa, where she headed to the ‘personnel only’ section, and into the small crew quarters. She had the bottom bunk there, which she was perfectly fine with. It was a little cramped, but it was, in a sense, her home away from home.

“Welcome to my humble quarters,” she sat on her bed and gesticulated for Timun to join her, “it may not look like much, it may not even  _ be _ much, but it is in honesty a very suitable place for sleeping. Now,” she leaned back on her palms, “I might be able to accommodate you back on Trill. I own a small flat in North Beraska – granted, it’s in the slums and my neighbors consist of one noisy prostitute, a constantly-drunk Klingon in exile and a family of three. Her name is Ekka, and you should be nice to her: her husband died three years ago from an overdose – oh, he was an asshole, we were both glad that he died, but it’s hard for her to live with nearly no income. She works as a cleaner during days and a stripper during nights. When I’m home, I babysit her kids occasionally – Lidzara and Yavron. Six and eight years old, pretty adorable, I think you’d like them.”

“There is something I don’t understand,” Timun admitted while removing his shoes so he could sit cross-legged by her right side. “You studied to be Joined, you  _ could _ have been Joined… Why do you work here? Why do you live in… such a place? I mean,  _ the slums _ of North Beraska?” he squinted. “I know your wage mustn’t be huge and that you’re saving money, but you could get better, and you could get a much better job too, I’m certain?” he blinked in disbelief. Savras smiled and straightened up, starting to remove her boots, too.

“Because I don’t want to live in a lie, I don’t want to surround myself by crystal walls and beautiful people and play pretend with the fascists. I’m a journalist, I go where I’m needed, I live where it’s needed, the way it’s needed. Do I look like I  _ need _ better?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him with honesty staring at him from the pits of her eyes. “Out of all the worlds in the entire Federation, Trill is the one with the most polished face outwards, and with the darkest shadow cast behind it – and the Federation, in its naïvety, swallowed the entire cake whole. The only reason we’re part of this alliance is because we do a damn good job at getting rid of what we don’t want to show,” she sat cross-legged as well, “I don’t need luxury, I don’t need a beautiful place to live. This, what I do for a living? It pays for my daughter’s future and my critical journalism. That, to me, is the only thing that matters.” Timun smiled. 

“Thought so. You’re a rough diamond, full with imperfection and the shell of stone you were born from, and you won’t let anyone cut your edges and polish you to fit on a pretty ring. You’re right. You’re already beautiful,” he took her hand. “I think it could be good for Dziana to see this, and not just the clean streets of Tierf’s suburbs,” he said. “I like you so fierce and tenacious, Savras,” he caressed her fingers and leaned to nuzzle them, “But I must tell you… I had an affair with someone while you were away,” he confessed. If not for the Lekisian tea, his voice would be ragged and painful. “I… had sex with someone. I have feelings for you, but I’ve… also grown feelings for this someone.” He raised his eyes up on her and licked his lips. He couldn’t say the name. “I know what we said about this. But you’re not going to approve this one. I know it.” For all his sweet words, it didn’t take Savras long to figure out exactly what he was insinuating – then she laughed.

“You make it sound like you had a thing with Melekor!” she remarked, enthused beyond what was reasonable, which she attributed to the synthehol. He stiffened a little but she didn’t pay attention yet, shaking her head instead, “Ah... really. But tell me, why are you running away with a child? I need to know if there are precautions I need to take, an aftermath to prepare for. Have you made dangerous friends, or even more dangerous enemies?” Timun shuffled his position, feet against each other and knees raised as armrests for his elbows, while his long fingers massaged his forehead. He took a deep breath, serious.

“It’s a long story, so please listen… What I’m going to tell you, I’ve never told to  _ anyone _ . That doesn’t mean nobody knows… Ywanna read it in my mind ...but let’s get started,” he looked toward the door, listening to check that nobody was around and about to intrude. Then he started his tale of shame.

“Some nine years ago, I went on a holiday trip with my mother. My little brother Jaden was in a vacation camp with kids his age and my father was on yet another business trip… It was just my mother and I. I was still having strong issues to control my emotions, so we decided to go spend two weeks in the Kiblan desert, up north, away from everything. It was wonderful… Pink ice, magical skies, and this sheer emptiness…” he smiled, but the smile quickly turned bitter. “I often say I don’t drink alcohol because I’m Vulcan, but the truth is… I’m allergic to it. Starting the second week of vacations, a magnetic storm broke, and you know how it goes in this location; it jammed all communications. We knew it was likely to happen,” he shrugged. “We’d looked forward this complete isolation, really. What we hadn’t imagined was that we’d find my father had hidden a bottle of Romulan Ale in one of the trunks we used, and we decided to drink it to ...teach him a lesson.” Savras simply listened, not yet suspecting anything and still open in her sweet ignorance. Timun exhaled longly. It was time to empty that bag of guilt and the words came out more like a relief.

“I didn’t just get drunk, I had a reaction that caused me to enter pon’farr, a condition that turns us Vulcans into crazed creatures in great need to mate. The only alternative to it is intense meditation or fighting over our chosen mate with a third person, lest we die in a matter of a few days,” he looked at her with a distant calm. She looked at him with a mix of surprise and interest – she’d heard about this Vulcan pon’farr thing for sure, but she’d always dismissed it as a rumor normal people made up about them, because they couldn’t imagine anyone being sexually frigid for a longer amount of time. To learn that it was actually a real thing... it really did put things in perspective. She couldn’t help but to imagine some of the hotter Vulcans she’d ever met, and a slight blush rose to her cheeks.

“Do you mean…” she started to put one and one and two together – Timun stared more intensely at the door.

“Meditation didn’t work. We were alone, with no means to join back civilization so long as the storm lasted. We had no other choice… We had sex. I had sex with my mother.” A sorry frown riddled his forehead, but he smiled. Deep down, he knew they did the only right thing to do and he was infinitely grateful for his mother to have given him life twice, in a way. “It could have been just that. A secret nobody would have known or suspected. But time later, after we’d returned home, my mother very suddenly asked my father to come back home. Oddly enough, she found herself pregnant after some weeks, and gave birth to a child which she reported him to be premature, though the baby seemed to have reached term to me. My pouch had widened some, I even produced milk for some time after Dziana was born, but it could very well have been but psychological…” He closed his eyes. “I never asked. We never talked about it. Not even my father asked any question, but suspicions were everywhere – I and Jabin were conceived with medical assistance… but the idea that two pregnancies might have favored a third one wasn’t entirely unlikely either,” he laid forth the arguments, then took a deeper breath. “One day, my father suggested that, since I was making such a good living as a doctor, I should save money for the family, on a separate bank account. I complied, because I was afraid of him. He probably took a good deal of that money for himself.”

Savras still listened, silent. She couldn’t agree with all the decisions that had been taken when the pregnancy came into play, but she knew how easier it was to judge from outside, without having to deal with all the emotions and the context. In this regard, she could sympathize.

“Two years after that accident with the ale, I entered pon’farr again. Normally this time,” he specified. “It took me by surprise because I assumed my biological clock musts have been reset by the alcohol,” he admitted his naïve mistake. “It gave me some more insight on things,” things he’d rather not mention yet, “but I had to deal with that situation so I called Dagail, to ask for his help. He was my most enduring lover and into ...certain things,” he suggested. “It was a logical choice. I warned him, he was eager, and he must have underestimated my words because ...it must have been too intense even for him and, I guess he just put enough distance between us that we never talked ever again after,” he said sadly.

“That’s a bit shitty,” she pinched her lips. “Was it  _ that _ extreme?”

“You know Klingons?”

She made a O with her mouth.

“This year, I will enter pon’farr,” Timun went on. “I didn’t want to be around my family and friends around that time… My father found me on DS9 and started to blackmail me, making it clear I should obey any of his requests, or he’ll have Dziana tested to prove which of us is her father. And I can’t allow that! If it does turn out that I’m… I can’t let it happen! She’ll be stigmatized, messed up, and she… deserves so much better!” he felt his eyes getting wet. “But even before I could plan anything to counter my father – Constable Odo was interested to help me – there came Ywanna, and she took the blackmail to a higher level yet. She decided I should become Melekor’s new doctor, and train him in martial arts,” he crossed his arms. “I don’t think she even wants him to be capable of defending himself as much as she wants him to be capable of violence, for some perverse reason.”

“I’m not Ywanna’s greatest fan, but-”

“Wait, that’s not all,” he cut. “I… had words with Melekor about that. He felt really bad about all his controlling mother was putting him through and he. He used me. He.” Timun couldn’t find a way to phrase it that didn’t sound awfully wrong so he spoke very frankly and very quickly. “He asked me to beat the crap out of him and fuck him roughly while calling him degrading names. I did all that, nearly got accused of rape when I couldn’t replicate medical tools for the aftercare  _ because of stupid security restrictions _ , and I was  _ stupid _ enough to tell that  _ idiot _ that I’ve grown feelings for him that are more than amical. And that  _ asshole  _ wasn’t content with just letting me like him, no, he had to  _ deny _ my own feelings because he’s so fucking persuaded he’s  _ ugly _ and that  _ nobody can like him! _ And he fucking beat me to protect his bitchass mother, saying she’s basically too candid to ever  _ actually _ blackmail people or get them killed! She  _ will _ have me killed when she’s done with me!” he nearly shouted, flailing a finger and finally beating his knee with his fist. The punch was hard enough that he nearly catapulted himself into the wall. “I’m sorry…” he apologized, more quietly, eyes wet with tears of rage behind his glasses.

“Timun…” she murmured, unsure of where to begin with. “You have to admit, you do sound kind of paranoid. If that woman killed off everyone who crossed her, I would be the first one to go,” she told him, patting his leg gently. “But... I can’t believe it, you had sex,  _ with Melekor? _ ” She would’ve asked what it was like, but since he had already explained that part, and she found herself not wanting more details, she skipped forward. “He thinks he’s  _ ugly? _ I’ve never known someone more vain about their looks than he is, going on about how Cardassian beauty is supposedly superior, as if he knew the first thing about that,” she frowned thoughtfully. “I thought he was asexual,” she finally blew the words out of her mouth,. “I mean,  _ he _ thought he was asexual. Maybe it wasn’t sex? Maybe it was some sort of self-harm? He... has a history of self-abuse, he just recently managed to quit, and it was quite an ordeal for him to get clean. It’s... really very troubling that he’s started again.”

There was a silence as Timun didn’t confirm nor infirm her theory.

“Nevermind all of that,” she decided to leave Melekor out of the conversation, “how do you  _ know _ that child is yours?” she picked the pillow and held it out to him, in case he needed to either punch it or hug it or something. “You’re a doctor, couldn’t you perform a test of your own?

“I’m a neurologist, this kind of genetics aren’t my speciality,” Timun excused himself and hugged the pillow. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have figured a way to investigate if he’d wanted.  _ If _ he’d wanted. “I’ve been a coward for too long,” he figured, “it’s time to find out the truth, whatever it is. But if it turns out the way I don’t want it to… what am I supposed to do?” he looked up at her. “I was hoping I could maneuver with Odo to drag the Commission’s attention to the way my father has been using his symbiont to blackmail all sorts of people. No doubt, if they don’t want the public to learn about it, they’ll have to deal with the matter quickly and probably extract Mynx and leave Jaden to die like the shithole he is. Now… I’m not entirely sure what to do anymore, but I’m certainly afraid for Dziana.”

“You do realize the Commission might see  _ you _ as equally much of a threat as they would him?” Savras felt inclined to share with him, “If you are a witness to his crimes, then you can attest to them, and as far as I know, the Commission doesn’t exactly show much interest in purchasing silence. Especially if your father is what they’d view as a terrorist.”

“A terrorist?” Timun snorted. “He’s not that big-”

“You don’t know what he does with all that money he seems to be making, do you?” she asked and pinched her lips as doubt washed on his face. “Yeah, it could be anything, alright. The way you describe him, he doesn’t sound like much of a philanthrope, but that’s the thing with those underground groups. There are those who have higher ideals, but there are mostly those who want blunt change, and those who feed on their anger for their own profit.”

“I can imagine that, but I think my father’s profit mostly winds up in the pocket of his Ferengi friends. And I don’t see what those Ferengi would have to gain in dealings with the Underground. It’s well known that rebels are poor, and unless they have a real chance to win, it would be a foolish investment.”

“Perhaps you going to Cardassia wasn’t such a bad idea, after all,” she pointed out grimly, “heh, you know it’s bad when you plan on fleeing to a dictatorship to escape ‘justice’ – I contemplated running to the Romulan Empire at multiple occasions,” she felt the need to tell him, “but then I think of my daughter. I’m still her mother, and there are still things I can do for her. I have an obligation, and I can’t go as far as I wish, because of it.” This was yet another reality check for Timun.

“I’m way too naïve for this world, Savras. I wasn’t raised to navigate plots. I can’t even navigate my own emotions. I wanted to join Starfleet but ended up not to just because my father encouraged me. I could see far too well that he hoped to use me if I succeeded; either that or he’d sully my name with his filth. But I should have, to get a status and protection. At this point… I feel like I have to make the choice between my ideals and my survival. And I don’t know if I’m brave enough to make the choice you did…” he cared to be honest. “I wish my father could die,” he told very honestly. “If he could be redeemed, he would already be. Using your child to blackmail another child is way past forgiveness and second chances. The only reserve I have is that he’s Joined, but then again, I wouldn’t wish to anyone to host Mynx and have to deal with Jaden’s memories and personality.” He looked at her, thinking. “What do you think? You care about symbionts more humanely than the Commission does. Jaden is Mynx’s ninth host, but being old doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve kindness and respect…”

“Perhaps death  _ would _ be kindness and respect,” Savras frowned and removed herself from the Vulcan a little, reaching out to trail the faint spots decorating his temple. “You really  _ are _ naïve, aren’t you?” she fussed, feeling a bit guilty that she indulged him in plots that very clearly were way too dark for him. Timun laughed.

“Look at me! I’ve managed to get into detention three times during the past two weeks, and spent most of my time there since I’ve met Melekor. I guess that speaks for itself. I  _ did _ manage to get out of all this without a single charge pressed against me, to Odo’s dismay, but really… I’m not even sure I can get back to just being a doctor and live a naïve life as I did before,” Timun removed his glasses and looked at her with a crooked smile. Her golden eyes turned a pinkish silver. It felt like those glasses didn’t just allow him to see more colors but also more danger, but he wasn’t sure he could get back to his rosy-colored world. “I’m not even sure I want to. I’ve been excusing myself for existing at all for so long, and now… I’ve started to fuck up, maybe I should continue at greater length, but for a greater cause too.”

“You mean join the extremists?” Savras asked with scepsis. “They could always use good doctors, but if I may be frank, I don’t think it’s a good idea. You… wouldn’t like being part of that, I can tell. When it all boils down to the core, you’re a good person – those are traits you’d have to get rid of if you were to indulge in ‘greater causes.’ A doctor in the oppositional force is never  _ just _ a doctor, he has to act the part of cruelty too, and I don’t mean by plain force. No,” she put a finger over his lips, “get your father wound up in something too big for him, have him break his own neck. After that,  _ be a father _ , one worth the name. But please, don’t run recklessly into the night just for the glory of it, you’re not a Klingon, and we’re not on Qo’noS.”

“You’re right,” he pulled her to lay her on the bed, moving above her, “I’m  _ better _ than a Klingon,” he landed a kiss on her mouth. “If I can’t be a rebel in the Underground, I could become a prostitute in the night,” he teased, and realized how serious he was. “I think I hate myself, Savras… I feel… I’ve always felt so incomplete. I thought it was just because of my mixed origins, but it must be deeper than that,” he felt sorry for her having to listen to his whining.

“Existential crisis?” she asked, suddenly switching their position and prying a kiss from his lips, “Not a very sexy topic of choice,” was her verdict. “What about yourself is it you hate, then? Your weaknesses, or your strengths?”

“My inadequation,” he answered. Being underneath felt good, more appropriate too. Calming. “I can’t tell my weakness apart from my strengths,” he admitted. “Sometimes I wish I could be destroyed and remade better ...or that I could submit to someone who can look at me and love me, desire me with all my flaws… Someone to make me useful, to make me feel validated and legitimated. Someone who could be my Empire.”

“You do know that it’s not too late for you to apply to Starfleet?” Savras was a bit concerned at all this; it didn’t sound entirely healthy. There were simply two types of people who had these kind of yearnings: those who were into it, and those who were in true distress. Lykes seemed to be of the latter category, and it was understandable. He had too much going on; his need to let go of control and surrender to someone else was... only normal. “You’re half-Vulcan,” she argued, “and you’re not very old. People much older than you have been known to qualify. If you yearn to become part of something bigger, I’d say go for that. You’ll do beautifully. You’d fit in. It’s not too late to give that gift to yourself.”

“You might be just right,” he reckoned. “Say. What about we have that dinner we talked about before? Without a forcefield this time,” he specified. “But I’d like to make a quick stop by the infirmary just before… With a little chance, the person I’d like to see won’t be too busy.”

“Game,” she agreed. “I too have a little errand to run, I’ll join you back after.”

##  * * *

A discreet sensation ran through Garak’s headspoon as the doors of his shop opened and closed in his back – he felt the presence better than he heard the intrusion. It was amazing how sharp his sixth sense was, and the tailor knew exactly who to thank for retrieving the full functionality of his brain. And he was grateful. Someone else he was grateful to in this moment was the Bajoran customer he was currently engaged in discussing with – Bareil Antos, as it were. The Vedek had a lose thread to his sleeve, which really required mending prior to meeting with Major Kira. While chit-chatting, Garak paid a glance to the Trill woman who had entered his shop. The sight of her didn’t fail to revive some unpleasant memories in some parts of his body – she could wait.

“Maybe I should take you to the workshop to fix this lose thread,” Garak kindly offered and the Vedek graciously took him up the offer. Behind closed doors, and while the Cardassian worked, their discussion continued. It always baffled Garak how Vedek Bareil kept on visiting him whenever he came to the station, to talk with him. “ _ The key to lasting peace between Bajor and Cardassia _ ,” as the Vedek put it. He was usually eager to inquire about the left-behind Cardassian’s opinions and insights, as if a mere tailor might have a deeper understanding of Central Command just because he spent one year working on Terok Nor, prior to the Withdrawal.  But Garak indulged him gladly, in return harvesting intelligence about Bajor, which he sometimes delivered back to the Order.

On this particular day, Bareil was especially concerned with what Garak thought about the upcoming Kai election. Which candidate would Cardassia favor most?

“Aren’t you more interested in the Bajorans’ opinion?” Garak honestly asked.

“I am interested in peace, Mister Garak,” the man smiled ever so faintly.

“Then I believe you are the man everybody needs. But you already know that, hm?” the tailor bit off the lose thread and cared for the sleeve some more with one of his sewing tools. “I think it’s quite obvious that Central Command would favor Winn. She’s a very intelligent and cunning woman who learned a lot from my kind, which makes her more predictable…”

“Yes, that’s very true,” Bareil agreed easily. “One would be a fool to underestimate her, but she’s not the only one who learned from your kind, as you put it.”

“You mean yourself,” Garak translated the subtext. “She’s up to something and you know it, is that it?”

“Mister Garak…” the man kept that blurry distance of his, “The matter isn’t what Vedek Winn is up to… the matter is what the Prophets want. And walking their path can be most difficult at times. For all of us,” he murmured and silenced, keeping pensive.

“What do you mean?” the tailor asked. It was often difficult to read Bareil Antos – his face was usually expressionless, and his gaze could be like a wall.

“Meaning is found in the heart, Mister Garak,” the Vedek threw a riddle at his face and examined his mended sleeve. “Have you ever had elections in Cardassia?”

“That would be highly disorderly, I’m afraid. The population doesn’t like to be involved in anything without knowing in advance what the end result will be. Else, it’s like gambling, and gambling is an abomination contrary to good order.”

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t want to make a bet on the election’s result…”

“Indeed,” Garak agreed. “We don’t play games in Cardassia. When we make a move, we aim to win.” There, the Vedek straightened up and nodded.

“Your perspectives are always invaluable,” he reckoned and moved towards the door. “I should get going,” he passed two strips of latinum to the tailor as they walked back into the shop.

“That’s too much,” Garak squinted.

“No, it’s also for the children,” Bareil pointed at the poster Garak had set on a wall, detailing his promotional offer for charity. “Humility, charity and faith are the keys to enlightenment, Mister Garak, and I think you hold all three of them. Should you know, there is room for Cardassians in our temples…”

“Oh, I  _ know _ ,” the Cardassian hurriedly answered, massaging his hand, where the young Rugal Pa’Dar had once bitten him. For once, the Vedek seemed amused and nodded a goodbye to both him and Savras. As he left, the tailor could finally turn to the woman, hands crossed behind his back and a large smile on his face.

“Welcome,” he greeted her, appreciating her more relaxed look, free-flowing brown hair softening her face and a beige dress allowing her body to reveal more elegant shapes. “So, what will it be for you this time?” the tailor still made sure to keep at a distance. Savras cleared her throat first, looking at everywhere but Garak.

“I... hate doing this, so I’ll just say it and be done with it: I was mistaken. And I’m sorry for my behavior last time – you saved my friend’s life, so I owe you my gratitude,” she added the last part with displeasure. “I still don’t trust you,” she interjected before he could thank her or anything, “but, I suppose you’re not as bad as I first thought.”

“Well! It was the least I could do for a fine fellow like Mister Kel,” Garak nodded appreciatively, “and I can appreciate that he seems to have a good friend like you. He does seem to attract the liking of odd characters, including myself and his half-Vulcan friend,” he joked, a more malicious expression settling on his face. “You are quite an unusual person yourself, aren’t you? And not just for your ...energetic manners, I mean. I hope this temper of yours won’t keep on being the cause of more problems in the future,” he observed her with attention. Oh, he’d looked her up. People with ideals who were thrown out of politics and stripped of practically everything for being too subversive to the Establishment were often good fodder for rebellions and underground political systems. Keeping an eye on those was always good to better learn of the weakness of a foreign power.

“Melekor’s almost as good at attracting people as he is at repelling them,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m afraid I’m taking Mister Lykes back to Trill with me.” Now it was she who observed him.

“Oh, really?” Garak showed surprise spiced with concern. “Did something happen? I thought Mister Lykes was interested to see Cardassia… Was his visum rejected by Central Command?” he inquired, though he was about certain it wasn’t the case. “Or did… something else… happen?” He smiled, “I heard he had an affair with you – I mean no offense in this regard.” Savras laughed.

“I think his affair was with  _ Melekor _ ,” she told the gossip-hungry Cardassian, “until he decided to develop  _ feelings _ for him, at which point they had some sort of disagreement. I guess Melekor must have rejected him, I think he might have hit him,” she sighed in exaggerated dismay, adding, “That boy can’t keep a friend to save his life. Well, that means I get Timun all for myself, I suppose.”

“Then I hope things will turn out better for Mister Lykes and you. Are you planning on moving in together?” he asked as mere chit-chat.

“No. I wouldn’t have been opposed to inviting him to stay with me, but I live in the slums. I don’t think it would be very nice of me to offer anyone to live there, when I hardly even stay at the place myself – such are the pleasures of working in transportation,” she sighed and leaned against the wall again. Garak was almost surprised. She wasn’t lying; those facts aligned with what intelligence he’d gathered. “What do you think about him?” she asked, “Melekor, I mean. Do you think he’ll manage to blend into Cardassian society? Considering his mixed origins, and, aren’t you Cardassians very xenophobic, just like Romulans? I, er, I studied Romulan culture for a while,” she hastened to add. He chuckled.

“My dear, Romulans are soft and open-hearted compared to us, Cardassians,” Garak widened his eyes and made himself taller for the sake of exaggeration. “We delight in enslaving and torturing lesser species,” he gestured at the station in general. Then he softened, cunning. “Still, family is of utmost importance to us ...After the State, of course. It is very unfortunate that Kel couldn’t grow up on Cardassia. Especially for his family. It might appear as a disgrace that they didn’t search for him more.”

“Does Melekor know that?” she asked, a thin line forming between her eyebrows, “I don’t think he’d ever want to hurt them, but then again, he’s proving me wrong in a number of ways lately.”

“I planned on telling him. Or showing him, rather. A Cardassian trial, so he might understand a little more our wonderful-yet-rather-unforgiving culture. Truth be told, if not for that late customer and yourself, I would already be on my way.”

“That might not be possible,” she decided she still wasn’t going to make it easy for Garak to get too close from Melekor, “The Levossa is having hardware issues, I was planning on swinging by his quarters in a moment and ask him to come help us.” She lowered her voice, “Jederza, the pilot, nearly damaged the station’s docking clamps; I’ve rarely seen Major Kira looking so ravaging – I mean, passionate – during any of our prior docking procedures,” she grinned. “Well, that, and Lykes told me Melekor’s so bored he turned their replicator into a transporter – I figured he might enjoy a return to old, familiar tech.” Garak couldn’t figure if he was more annoyed or amused.

“Well, we could see which of curiosity or nostalgia drives him the most. If you just let me close my shop, we could go together,” he proposed with a cunning smirk. “I am certain this’ll be most interesting.”

That was an unfair competition, one Savras was pretty certain she’d lose, but she took it up rather than give up without trying.

##  * * *

At the infirmary, Julian’s frustration was starting to boil his blood as he tried to cook up Ywanna without any success. The woman had decided to drop by to ask about this alternative treatment he’d been working on for her son. Instead, the doctor tried to inquire about the composition of his phelenaxinide, but all his questions simply resulted in “I’m not a doctor, don’t ask me.” When he asked about Selek, she’d simply tell him that it was a  _ very _ long time ago, and if he wanted to know anything about that, he’d be better off asking Melekor. Back to square one.

They were in agreement, though, and that alone made Julian uncomfortable – if there was someone on the station he didn’t feel happy agreeing with, it was this woman. But she was right; Melekor would be better off quitting.

“Even if we weaned him off of it, there’s no saying what will happen to him if he quits, say, all that testosterone,” he pointed at the PADD, “I don’t think it’s in there to inhibit his abilities.”

“It isn’t,” Ywanna told him frankly.

“So you know why it’s there?”

“To balance his hormonal levels, of course,” she answered like he was daft. “Listen, Doctor, I don’t care exactly what you do; if you can make a medicine that could wean him off of his phelenaxinide, I’ll take care of the rest. I’m sure that given time, he’ll listen to me.”

It was when Jabara came in to hand Julian a PADD with a simple message on screen. As the nurse left as swiftly as she’d come, he could feel the Betazoid trying to peek into his mind. He filled it with images of food, working off of the fact that he was hungry. It was credible enough.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to call it quits for now – a multiresistant sample from Andoria I’ve been waiting months has finally arrived, and I need to tend to it immediately. I hope you’re not offended?” he lied while pressing his thumb on the screen as to validate a receipt.

“No, I think we agreed on what’s important. And thank you again, Doctor, for your discretion. Rest assured that such compliance comes with its benefits,” she smiled at him, almost like a challenge, before walking out. Julian took a deep breath and joined Jabara.

“I thought she’d never leave,” he told her offhandedly. “So, in which closet have you hidden Mister Lykes?” She laughed.

“In surgery. Do you think those ah, precautions were necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry until we’ve got this all sorted out,” Julian smiled and went to pick the Vulcan-Trill in the strange waiting room he found himself into. “So, Mister Lykes,” he greeted him, “What brings you here this time?”

“I didn’t harm my friend again,” Timun thought to say first. “But I… have one or two things I would like to tell you. And ask you. This includes a favor, I’m afraid. Can we talk privately?” he requested, a bit uneasy with his demand.

The Starfleet doctor nodded and locked the door, inviting the other to have a sit on the bed while himself sat on a chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m leaving,” he answered right away. “I intend to return, but keep that for yourself. I am concerned for Melekor, and…” Ah, it was complicated to explain everything. “What I’m going to reveal to you, I reveal it under the seal of medical secrecy,” he made clear before going on about the delicate matter his father blackmailed him with, and how Ywanna learned about it and pressured him into working for her too. And how Melekor was too blinded by his love for his mother to realize what a despicable person she was.

“She’s…  _ rough _ with his mind,” he made the euphemism obvious. “The way she ‘trains’ him psychically is close to torture, but he’ll never admit to it. I’m concerned for him…”

No matter how dire the truth, there was a part of Julian’s brain that found all of this to be positively orgasmic. These were the last puzzle pieces to make the puzzle complete, and it  _ was  _ satisfying to see the whole picture. It did introduce new questions however; what did Lykes’ father want that he hadn’t asked for yet? If Melekor’s mother was capable of having Lykes  _ killed _ , as he implied, then who were she in contact with? Garak had suggested the Obsidian Order, but Julian was hard-pressed to believe any of their agents would bend to this woman’s will.

“Meanwhile,” Timun finished, “there is something you could maybe do for me. I know nothing forces you to but…” he licked his lips, “if I could send you a blood sample, could you have it analyzed to determine who is my little sister’s father?”

“I’ll need a sample of your blood, too,” Julian got up to get a hypospray, “Now, blackmail is against the law; you really should report this directly to your legal authorities. And in addition, I should make you aware that I’m supposed to break my oath if I believe your life is at risk. You seem to believe it is, but at the same time, I am not sure there’s any proof at all that Ywanna Kel is as dangerous as you imply,” he pressed the hypospray against Lykes’ arm and sucked some blood from him – the half-Vulcan avoided to watch in case that plus his current state might make him dizzy. “Are you sure you want to risk your life rather than go to authorities and get protection?”

“My sister is eight, almost nine, and I don’t want her to be used and hurt,” he said, complying to the medical act with ease. “She’s only a child… and as you said, there aren’t enough proofs to report Ywanna in any efficient way. I can protect myself,” he told with confidence. Julian sent Lykes a compassionate look.

“I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re gone,” he willingly accepted the task, nevermind that he had been on it already for quite some time. “Have you ever thought of telling her?” he asked. “Your little sister, I mean. If it turns out you are her father, she will find out sooner or later. You don’t want the truth to come out too early, but you don’t want it to come out too late, either. It... can leave lasting psychological trauma. She might feel like you deceived her, or like she’s... a fraud.”

“I’ve thought about it… More and more, these days, as you can imagine.” He rested himself against the bed a bit. “She’s very bright but she’s still a child… I don’t want to make it sound like it’s anything bad, because it’s not. It’s unfortunate, unplanned, but that’s the worst that could be said. The problem isn’t her nor who her parents are, the problem is the society,” he looked at Julian with determination. “I want her to grow up confident of her worth, and critical of the world she lives in. …I know I’m not the best model for this, of course, but children are supposed to become better than their parents, right? And she’s taught me so much already…” he smiled more fondly.

“How about you just explain to her like you did to me?” Julian inquired softly, “Tell her the entire story: that you ended up entering pon’farr – she doesn’t have to know exactly  _ why _ that happened – and that your mother saved your life, and that she is the result of that union. I think if she views it that way, she might even feel like  _ she _ saved your life. And I don’t think that’s very shameful at all.”

“Maybe…” Timun looked down his feet. He wet his lips and raised his gaze again. “Can I ask what you’d think of her? If you could see her, knowing this… Wouldn’t you, I don’t know, look for traces of inbreeding in the features of our faces or…”

“No, and I’ll have you know that it takes a good while before inbreeding leads to visual signs,” he shook his head. “I’d see her as a little girl, and if she were my patient, I’d see her as a patient. I think you’re under so much stress about the idea that this sensitive information might spread, that you see things that aren’t even there. Siblings can be years apart and still look near-identical, and it’s randomized which of the parents’ traits are dominant. Genetics are fascinating like that.” Timun smiled sunnily.

“Thank you Julian – I mean, Doctor,” he got up. “You are a good person, with a kind heart. We need more people like you; it’s good to have you around. I didn’t think I may ever look up to someone younger than me as a role model, but you’re brilliant.”

“Why, thank you!” Julian felt a little bit smug and good about himself.

“Actually,” Timun pressed, “if I can get out of all this relatively unscathed… I think I might even get back to my teenage plans and apply to Starfleet,” he grinned embarrassedly.

“I think that’s a splendid idea!” Julian brightened, “You’d be going into medicine, I presume? Ah... those were quite some years,” he recalled his own, getting a bit hazy-eyed before returning to the present, “If you do decide to apply, I’d like to know. If you ever need an internship, I think I know just the place to host you,” he winked.

“Why, I’d be delighted! I might be growing a fondness in fixing Cardassians and this has to be the best place to do so!” he joked.

“But they  _ are _ fascinating, aren’t they?” Julian chimed with enthusiasm, “They function differently from the rest of us – though I guess, with your friend, it’s less evident, him having grown up in a normal society. Er,” he blushed, flustered, “I mean, in a society that’s not totalitarian. It... does kind of make a difference.”

“Do you… sometimes feel like…” – how to phrase it? – “like the most naïve fool? Like a complete idiot in the middle of a game you don’t know the rules of, and have to learn as you play it, stumbling from a bad move to the next?”

“All the time!” Julian admitted with a pat on the other’s shoulder.

“I’m starting to see the dark side of my own world and… I feel ill-prepared to deal with it,” Timun sighed. “I’m not sure I grew up in a ‘normal’ society after all. I might have just grown up in a smoother dictature,” he paraphrased Savras.

“My friend Garak often accuses me of naïvety. Cardassians do have a different perspective on the things we consider to be good – where we see something benevolent like the Federation, they see a light that casts shadows. But I still think, that what we have is better and more humane than their system of state – though I tend to believe they have a psychological need for authoritarian leadership that the rest of us might not possess,” he smiled gently. “But Lykes, you are a doctor, are you not? Then you should know, we always stumble around until we find the right diagnosis and treatment, and sometimes things don’t go our way. That doesn’t mean it never will; but I digress. We need to be optimistic to keep going, but when things go bad and we don’t feel so good for ourselves, we become more capable of seeing the things that went wrong. It’s like losing depth perception; we only fathom what is close to us, and what’s close to you is a feeling of failure. Maybe you could use a cornea rectification, eh?” he joked.

“You’re right again,” Timun agreed. “I’ve been living in a pink and blue haze pretty much all my life. Since I’ve started to see more colors, the world around me has also become more frightening… I think I might be afraid to realize my qualities, to admit I haven’t tried to bloom as a person because I’ve never seen the likes of me represented in the dominant norm of my society… I wanted my world to be fair and beautiful, to be simple, because ...I was in pain, and too much so to find the strength to better myself,” he reckoned. “It’s time to cure my fears.” There was still a bit of bitterness in his voice, but resolution too.

Julian didn’t comment so not to undermine his previous argument when it’d just yielded positive results, but he could imagine how poor representation might have played in Lykes’ situation. Oh, the Federation was supposedly free from racism and prejudice, and Starfleet was supposedly open to all, but Julian wasn’t quite as convinced of that now, as he had once been.

“I will come back,” Timun said firmly as they stood on the threshold of the infirmary, “and I hope you’ll teach me yet another lesson, but in racquetball this time,” he defied the young man. “Until then, thank you for everything, Julian,” he pronounced the name more confidently this time, to address the person beyond the profession.

“You take care of yourself, and have a safe trip,” Julian wished him, smiling fondly at him and watching him until he’d disappeared out of eyeshot.

He’d learned a lot of interesting things from that conversation, hadn’t he?


	17. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trillian politics, Cardassian justice and an occasion for Garak to show off more skills than he wished to

Garak and Savras sported an equally smug expression when they chimed to Melekor’s quarters, but it all burnt down to one same share of concerned surprise when the door opened, arraying a violent heat from inside. At the same time, a cold gust of air from the corridor hit Melekor and he stumbled backwards into the dimness of the living room, as if he’d been assaulted. Hugging himself in the pale and flowy canvas robe he was wearing, he squinted at the rude light and the cold.

“Savras?” He asked in a hoarse voice and then, with even more surprise, “Garak?” He shuddered, “Just get in already, you’re letting all the heat out,” he headed over to the replicator, clearly sleepy-headed. He might have been crying too. “Does anyone want anything?” he looked back as Garak came in, taking off his jacket – even for a Cardassian like him, the air was about too hot at once. Savras however stood in place. The sheer heat exploding at her left her in a state of shock and kept her out like a forcefield. What in in the world had Melekor  _ done? _

“The Levossa has some issues with the left thruster,” she said blankly, “I was hoping-”

“The emergency thruster or the maneuvering thruster?” Melekor asked from inside the room.

“Maneuvering.”

“Flush the secondary capsules with sonic pulse vibrations, highest pitch possible. The activation mechanism is in the third menu, subsection four – the red button. If that doesn’t work,” he muffled a yawn with his hand, “try kicking the bulkhead – you’ll have to put some force in it. One of the hydraulic joints is bent and it has a tendency to slide out of its glove at times. Nothing too bad,” he turned around to squint out at Savras, “Do you want something or not?” She shook her head.

“I believe he’s all yours,” she muttered to Garak, “I’ll talk to you next time, until then,” she told Melekor, who half-waved after her as she disappeared behind the closing door.

“Well, well,” Garak stopped looking around to set his eyes back on the other, “had I known, I would have brought more fitting raiments. But, if you would be willing to leave this warm and welcoming place for mine at 1900 hours, I thought we could maybe have this dinner we discussed before, and watch a Cardassian program together,” he made his proposition.

“Dinner. Program,” Melekor repeated as he put his mind back together into a more waken state, “I’ll have to get into something else,” he gesticulated towards himself, remembering what he was wearing and blushing a little. “It’s  _ not _ a dress,” he pointed out, mostly because that had been Savras’ first comment upon first seeing him in it.

“Obviously,” the tailor could tell, although he could also easily imagine how some of his latest feminine creations would look on Melekor. With just some adjustments to the models, some would be most ravishing, he was certain. A pity, really, that all the young man had ordered him so far were utilitary clothes. “You know, I still think you should try some dresses someday,” he said as he got up, leading the way out. “I should teach you how to use a bit of makeup too, so you can better navigate Cardassian society. Codes of beauty have their importance, after all,” especially in a totalitarian system, he didn’t add that part but he implied it.

“Do many Cardassian men wear dresses?” Melekor asked with a grin, assuming Garak was screwing up with him, “Do  _ you? _ ” The tailor laughed.

“Cardassian men don’t wear dresses, no, at least not in public. But Cardassian males may wear dresses,” he laid the riddle.

“I’d rather be normal,” Melekor shared his point of view casually, “Not that it’s ever going to be possible, considering what I am. But... I  _ wish _ I were normal.” It somewhat hurt to put it like that, and he forced himself to smile at the pain.

“Meet me later,” Garak just said with a polite smile. “I’ll have something Cardassian replicated for dinner and I’ll see to up the temperature of my quarters some more.”

“You know…” Melekor caught on the opportunity to maybe show off a bit, “ _ I _ could modify your quarters’ systems to allow for this kind of temperature… unless you’d rather get the ability to beam a cup of tea from the replicator directly on your nightstand with a simple voice command,” he grinned.

“I believe I still have legs, and I already wish I could exercise a little more,” Garak kindly rejected the second proposition. “But I suppose wouldn’t be opposed to some additional degrees. Yet… I would feel rather uneasy in accepting your offer when you rejected my own.” Melekor blinked, so he clarified, “To try a dress.”

It was a fair bargain in which they were both as interested and reluctant about what the other had to offer. With benefit outweighing paranoia and shame, they struck this new deal.

##  * * *

Savras had run past the ship to apply the methods Melekor had prescribed, doing so very hastily before hurrying back to her date with Lykes. Once she found him, she approached from behind and then leaned over his shoulders, folding her arms around his chest and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“My, my, they really have classy decorations in this place,” she murmured in his ear. The chuckle that followed, leaping freely from his lips, was a rewarding change for the best. Timun seemed to be doing better and it was all she could wish for in this moment, aside from food to put in her empty belly.

“What would you like to eat?” the Vulcan asked as if he’d read her mind, “I was thinking of roasted duck with orange and lime, or maybe spiced rabbit skewers,” he suggested.

“That sounds lovely, how about we get both?” She set off to the replicator before he got a chance to say anything else. There were some people queued up, but not too many, and she soon reached the front, placing her order, and bringing it to the table.

“You’re not going to believe what Melekor’s done to your quarters,” she said as she sat down, “He’s turned the place into  _ an oven _ . I don’t understand how he tolerates it.”

“An  _ oven _ ?” Timun repeated as he served himself some bird meat (though he grabbed a skewer right after because he couldn’t decide which meat to taste first). “If I should be honest, I quite enjoy warmer temperatures too. But Mel has a special love for extreme things, doesn’t he? And I’m not talking just about the pain. He’s been listening to music at a deafening sound level before too,” he touched his ear as to reassure himself it was fine now.

“It was  _ at least  _ a hundred degrees in there, I couldn’t go inside,” she stressed with exaggeration, “He had to talk to me through the door! Garak joined him though,” she shrugged and grabbed a skewer. “That boy does have a flair for the extreme. I think it’s the only thing that touches him – ironic, for a half-Betazoid. You’d think he’d be more sensitive to subtleties? But then,” she munched some meat, “it’s about culture, too. He grew up in the outskirts of Nerada, lots of edgy teens there. Even the upper classes are prone to edgy streaks. I guess it shaped him.”

“I suppose,” Timun didn’t want to mention Ywanna’s contribution to that. “In other news – better news – Julian agreed to help me with the genetic tests I need to perform, and persuaded me to share the truth once I have an answer. To tell  _ her _ , if it turns out there is something she should know,” he told quite bravely.

“That’s great news!” Savras exclaimed, sitting straight then leaning forwards, “I’m glad he could give you good advice! He does seem like a very good person – handsome too, from what I gather. Not my type, though,” she shrugged, “can’t explain it. I think he’s a little bit too refined. I like my partners a tad more spicy, or spicy-cute, like you.”

“Oh, I’m spicy-cute?” Timun chuckled, soaking himself in the flattery. “Well, you must be right, once more,” he stroked her leg under the table. “Julian  _ is _ a very good person; I already owe him a lot. Ah, and he’d be my type enough if he weren’t way out of my league. You’re probably right. He’s probably a little bit too refined to lay eyes on me like that. It would seem like his major flaw so far,” he shrugged. “I won’t weep however. How could I when I’m blessed with a fierce and smart woman like you? You’ve got all the spice and salt I can appreciate, with just enough sweetness to make it addictive.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t have been mutually exclusive,” Savras’ hinted, then burst down in a laughter, “Though, from what I’ve heard, Humans are less prone than other species to form more intricate relationships,” she added, shaking her head, “It’s sad, isn’t it? How so many species have gotten stuck in the same pattern of exclusive relationships, especially when history and scientific data seems to point to mono-relations being something of an unnatural constellation,” she suckled on her skewer, “It’s why I like Denobulans,” she pointed out, “now  _ there _ is a people who knows how to love, and love well. Peaceful too. I think there’s a connection there.”

“True that, and pleasantly down to earth, I believe” he agreed. “Aren’t Terrans also very ... _ happy? _ ” Timun pointed. “Admittedly I met only a few Humans, but my friend Qanaak met many more during his years in Starfleet, and he did agree that they easily seem like eager goofs, quite engrossed with their culture, and constantly baffled that  _ other  _ species who live  _ light years  _ away from Earth wouldn’t know about this or that singer who died centuries ago, as if the entire galaxy revolved around their planet,” he recalled. “I know we all think we are the best species, but Terrans do strike me as self-centered. Not even a Klingon would expect you to know about all their operas – they only expect you to know who they are before they’ve introduced themselves,” he snorted. “But yes,” he came back to the previous topic, “I often wonder if, beyond this goofy self-centered happiness, Terrans aren’t simply terrified of letting their culture get dissolved by the universality of the Federation.”

“I don’t know about that,” Savras countered as she spiked a piece of duck on her fork, “certain dissident groups back home, those in favour of leaving the Federation, have noticed that trait too. They, however, feel that Humans are being culturally invasive: Terran standards are being imposed on other worlds, threatening systems and altering worlds beyond ‘repair’, as they phrase it,” she shrugged. “I disagree with them, but I could see why they’d draw these conclusions. Humans  _ are _ one of the Federation’s four founders. I hardly think they are threatened by the rest of us; they already put their soul in the rules we all have to abide by.” She stuck the duck in her mouth, and groaned a little with pleasure;  _ that _ was delicious. On the other side, Timun thought about her arguments while alternating duck and rabbit meat, as to help himself weigh pros and cons.

“I don’t know… I believe they have a history of imposing their culture? My friend Qanaak studied their history and told me they used to have many more varied cultures, and are now just worshipping a diversity they once had. Of course, there are still different ways of life from place to place, but it’s nothing as striking as what it used to be. Those of their people who didn’t abide by those standards just had to go find a planet to colonize for themselves. And meanwhile, more and more places of the Federation are getting replicators in every house and even transporters to beam themselves to work or to visit family… No matter we like it or not, technology brings a certain kind of unification of lifestyles, and certain cultural habits change or disappear. Change induces fear, and fear induces quick conclusions that feel logical enough at first glance. And even Humans can come to the same conclusion as anti-Federation bell ringers…”

“That’s a middle-class perspective, if I ever saw one, Mister Lykes,” she pointed at him with her fork, “and if you’re going to approach it from that end, you’ll never see what the dissidents are  _ actually _ unhappy about. Technology  _ is _ one of the inspiring factors, but not for the reasons you listed – thanks to transporters and replicators, what used to be the working class can be entirely ignored. Who needs farms, when everything can be replicated? And poor people, do they even exist, if you never have to see them due to the hyper-modern transporter system? No, Lykes, these aren’t people afraid of technology, these are people who are seething in their own anger, growing more and more desperate, because they are not being seen. They’ve lost their functionality in society, and they are  _ angry _ . And the Federation... it suits the Federation to ignore it all. ‘We have basic citizenship support,’ they say, showering these people in minimum income. But what about the basic feeling of worth? What about decency and community? There’s nothing to this but a slow and insidious genocide – people are either standing up ready to fight, or they are losing the will to live. What unites the two groups is that neither of them reproduces, and both of them die in the end.  _ That’s _ what these people are angry about. Not replicators changing the comforts of life.” She stabbed a slice of duck, and nearly sent it flying off of the plate. Timun snorted at what just happened.

“Ah, that fire!” he chuckled, “That’s what I love you for! But you are right, yes, I do agree! I didn’t have a lot of contact with my grandparents after we moved to Tierf, but I remember them, sitting on the porch of their house in Betani, staring obstinately at the fields spreading all around. Those were bitter people if I’ve known any,” he soaked a piece of duck in agrum sauce. “Betani is located in the province of Keffer, in the region of Samixia, and it’s one of those places that’s turning barren despite all the care invested in the land. Or maybe because of it…” the Vulcan said thoughtfully. “My grandparents said they were given tools and nutrients to make the cultures more productive. The State said that farmers had to produce more food to lower the prices and compete with replicators,” he rolled up his eyes to suggest he wasn’t even going to argue about that ridiculous argument. “I remember my grandmother saying that the more they cared for the plants, the least the plants cared about staying alive. They grew up, but they had no taste, no flavor, barely any scent. Even fruits and vegetables generated by replicators had more nutrients and savor.” He silenced a moment before adding, “One day, my grandfather filled the bathtub with that liquid fertilizer, dipped himself in it and sedated himself with a hypo. He wasn’t the only one who did it, but nobody really covered those suicides beyond local news, because they were just a few farmers, and they didn’t have a worm inside. Still, I remember how his body was still blue from that chemical substance… Unless it was actually green,” he gestured at his glasses and sighed. “I was a teen back then, but I felt relieved, because his death put an end to his unhappiness. It took years for me to understand better the true unfairness of this situation, but whenever I wondered what we could have done differently to avoid coming to this end, I could see no true solution.” Savras finally broke out of the silence in which she’d shut to listen to Timun with undivided attention – the kind that kept her so silent, one would almost believe she was another person entirely. Tears had risen in her eyes, and she reached out a hand to hold his.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she rubbed his fingers and sighed bitterly, “maybe it explains why your father has so few fucks to give,” she told him in a lower voice and he nodded – Jaden had been very shocked then – “the people who grew up in this, seeing things like these, they didn’t exactly learn to care, nor for themselves, nor for others. The Federation preaches equality and solidarity, but those who get left out will learn the opposite. Oh... I wish you wouldn’t have had to see his body. The teenage brain is not very fit for such imageries,” she looked up at him with more softness than she ever had before, “that you did, makes it even more remarkable that you became such a sweet, humble and caring person.”

“But it was fine!” he insisted with a kiss to her hand. “It was a  _ bit _ weird because of the color, but  _ I _ wanted to see. To know he was gone. To acknowledge, to understand,” he nodded. “But you’re right, yes. My grandmother was always so angry at my father, she often ended up shouting at him ‘ _ we didn’t ruin ourselves for this! _ ’ – talking of his worm; and ‘ _ we didn’t raise you to be like this! _ ’ and all those things.” He shook his head. “All my father understands is money and possession. My grandparents were angry people, angry against the system, against the Federation, the State, technology, science, society, everything… and I can’t fault them entirely. They felt left out. Maybe that’s also what motivated me to become a doctor… To heal the people, and to justify my existence, to beg to be allowed to earn a place in the system.”

“And I  _ do _ think you should join Starfleet,” she stroked his cheek with her fingers, following the shape of his jaw, “they could use someone who doesn’t view them through rosy-colored glasses – ah, figuratively speaking,” she snorted at herself, but sobered up rather quickly, “I think the dissidents are right in that what the Federation has wrought is  _ beyond repair _ , but I disagree with their solution. I think if we  _ leave _ the Federation now, we  _ will _ be beyond repair. The transporters and replicators won’t go away just because the Federation does, and those who live in privilege, won’t let that go. No, the only way to mend Trill, is to continue on the path we’re on – but someone  _ has _ to make the Federation aware of this issue,” then she got even more serious, weary even, “But make sure never to speak of this prior to being one of them. If you do, the government will sabotage you. There’s a reason that  _ nearly all _ Trill personnel at Starfleet are Joined, and it’s  _ not _ that the symbiont gives them an advantage,” she smiled to cut herself off, “But what do I know? Those are  _ just _ conspiracy theories.” She let go of his hand and picked her glass of water, indulging in a sip.

“Savras.” Timun put down his cutlery and quickly dried his fingers on his napkin before getting up to stand by her side, hold her face and kiss her. “You are a gem and you make me hot,” he nuzzled her before getting back to his seat. Savras too, felt rather hot, and the lingering touch of his lips on hers made her hesitate to eat more food, lest she’d erase the imprint there.

“Sorry! I had to…” Timun flailed his hands vaguely. “I guess we’ll have to keep our relationship secret, then… If you are right, then I’ll need to be careful. I plan on doing as much as I can from here, on DS9. Doctor Bashir already offered me his support, should I need an internship. Of course, he’s young. Very young. Quite fresh out of his years of studies… but that’s still a start. If I do well and keep a good profile, I can do it,” he told with confidence. “After all, I’ve followed two medical courses at the same time and got very good results,” he shrugged. “Perks of not needing to sleep much!”

“Hm… A secret relationship?” she asked with a luscious darkness to her voice, “How exciting,” the matter was real though. For all its naughty implication, secret relationships had never been her thing – she’d tried. It never worked out, sadly, because in the end, it bred too much anxiety for it to be bearable. Admittedly, she’d never been in the  _ dangerous-by-association _ half of such a relationship before. She found that it carried with it a new level of responsibility, and it wasn’t entirely comfortable to her. “I could always move to another system to make it safer for you,” she suggested, “I’d even take my lady friend and her kids with me, if she’d agree. That way, it looks like my love life is with her – wouldn’t even be one hundred percent incorrect either; we have sex, sometimes.”

“Really? What does she look li-” Timun interrupted himself, realizing he’d been  _ way  _ too eager and fast to ask. “Well, two women together, it’s as beautiful and fascinating as it can get for one who’ll never experience what such bodies can feel,” he justified himself with a cocky grin. “But more seriously, are you sure? The choice is yours to make. My experience of exile was that I could always make new friends, and discovering a different culture probably opened my mind to some extent. Of course, I also started to compare what shouldn’t be compared, really, but in the end, I didn’t turn out  _ so _ bad, did I? Now, your little girl’s not me, but if she’s even half as tough as her mother, I’m pretty sure she’ll do great.”

Ah, yes, Mirna... Savras wished he wouldn’t have brought her up, and her expression dampened significantly as he did. She couldn’t do this to her – or perhaps it was worse. Perhaps she’d be better off.

“I’ll take a couple of months to think about it,” she decided, stirring some duck meat with her fork, before skewering one on it and dipping it in the sauce, “after all, that’s already only two days with her...” she looked at her food, “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

“It would be wise,” Timun stroked her leg with his and grabbed the rabbit skewer again. “I’ve been more than a brother to my siblings,” he said. “My father was away most of the time, so I had to help my mother. I guess I’ve been ripped of a part of my childhood because of this, having to take up responsibilities that shouldn’t have fallen onto me. Or maybe that’s why I’m still so childish, I wouldn’t know, but what’s certain is that… I felt bad about leaving Dzinni behind. Jabin is older, preparing for university; I know he still needs me, but he probably needs space too. But Dzi… I don’t know what I should do if it turns out I…” he didn’t need to finish the sentence. “I’m sure she’d love it here on the station, but it’s not the safest place for kids of course! And if she’s with me, she’ll miss her mother. She probably needs her mother more, and I don’t know if I should… You know. Who should I be to her?” he dug a hand in his hair and pulled on it, as to help himself to think.

“Her mentor,” Savras answered in between bites, “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for,” she pointed at him with a skewer, “you know how most societies demand all guardians take an active role in the lives of their children? Usually it involves mentors as well. Your mother should share her role with you,” she put her fork down, “That’s what’s so insidious about the punishment I was given – it wasn’t something added onto me, like a fine, no, it was a basic right withdrawn from me. And they made it sound credible too, like I was some kind of… violent, paranoid conspiracy theorist, whose influence on the girl would be ‘harmful’ – my ass!” she took the fork again, looking distinctly at Timun, “You don’t have that roadblock, at least, I’d say you talk to your mother. She might even be enthused that her child could go see places like this station, meet diverse people and cultures – experience things with her favourite brother! I think it would do everyone good. Well, except for your father, but no one cares what does him good.” Timun laughed at that last comment.

“You have sass, lass,” he smiled brightly. “I guess I’m still quite fortunate. What they do to you is really unfair, but even if it’s only one or two days for you with her every once in awhile, I am certain she treasures them. I remember how I used to treasure the days my father was there, how I’d cling to him,” he recalled almost fondly, though he mostly thought of Jaden’s Ferengi friends who taught him the Rules of Acquisition, how to play various games and were so impressed when Timun came up with an agility game consisting in either building or deconstructing towers of latinum slips and strips. He shrugged. “Then I realized he was an asshole who didn’t want to be saved, and I stopped caring. But you, my dear, are a wonderful person, and I am certain your daughter will grow up to love you and admire you. Especially if she’s away from Trill for a few years, to open her mind to the world outside.  _ Home is where the heart is, but the stars are made of latinum! _ ” he quoted the 75th rule.

“I only hope she’ll get that far,” Savras smiled at the last sentence, ”Is that some kind of Ferengi saying? I’ve heard it somewhere before.” She took another skewer – the last one in the pile, and treated herself with dipping it in the sauce, just to see what it’d be like.

“I had Ferengi ‘uncles’ who taught me the 285 Rules of Acquisition. They used to make me recite them and bet on which ones, or how many I’d forget, but for a short while only. I learned too fast for the game to last long,” Timun chuckled and got back to his piece of duck. “I could recite them while we digest a bit, and if you feel in the mood after, we could find some place where we could wrestle a bit,” he suggested.

“I think I might fancy a nap after we are done, if I should be completely honest – and boring,” she offered an apologetic smile, “I take it you don’t want to spend the next four or so hours in the bed in your quarters; you’re more than welcome to spend them in my bed if you’re interested in such. I have two days off back on Trill once we get there – more than enough time for all the wrestling and Rules of Acquisition you could ever dream of.”

“Fine on me,” Timun smiled. “But I suppose you’ll need to spend them with your daughter, and I also need to go back home to see Dzi. Maybe we could see each other with the girls, though. They could play together,” he proposed.

“I’m not allowed to see Mirna until week after next week,” Savras mumbled, then emptied her cup, ” _ but _ ,” she cheered herself up, ”I’d be more than happy to come along meet your little siblings. And see some other areas – forget the slums for a while, just enough to remind myself of the delusion a majority of people live in. Perspective isn’t something you get once and always keep; it has to be renewed.”

“True,” Timun nodded. “You’ll get to meet my mother too then, and we could wrestle in a proper gym,” he rubbed his hands. “That will be a true lesson.”

He could already picture it. Hopefully Savras wouldn’t find him and his family to be too upper middle class…

##  * * *

Garak had rearranged his quarters a bit. He’d required a couch and a low table to set in front of it. He’d set sea drinks and small bowls of snacks – diced dried fish, sticks of ankubai paste (those were very sweet) and little tama eggs, hard-boiled and glazed with spices.

“I love eggs!” Melekor chirped as his host presented the menu of the TV tray. The tailor almost chuckled.

“And do you like justice too, Kel?”

“Justice?” he echoed, as if he’d never heard the word before, “If by justice you mean the presence of something greater that looks over all, that provides safety for you, something to represent the greater good, and all it requires in return is your unconditional submission, then I guess I do. I sound like a child,” he realized, his neckscales blushing profoundly, “don’t I?”

“No, no!” Garak denied brightly. Now this really was something Melekor Kel didn’t have in common with Kel Lokar, he thought to himself amusedly. It was for the best, really. “This is...  _ well _ , it might be true. Cardassian justice might be the beholder of all Cardassian innocence and childishness, but this safety is indeed the reward for our submission and devotion for the greater good of all. Tonight, we are going to watch a  _ trial _ ,” the tailor announced with intense excitation in his eyes. “I sincerely hope you will enjoy it.

Melekor nodded, assuming it would probably be ah, interesting. No matter how glad he was to be with the Cardassian, he looked around whenever the other wasn’t watching, trying to get a glimpse of the box of triptacederine – surely, Garak couldn’t have used all of it, and Melekor could probably use some to alleviate his own pain when alone.

“Ah, it’s still Tobran,” Garak nodded as he turned on the transmission. “Weather…” he summed up.

“A lot of rain on the ah… capital,” Melekor noticed.

“It’s one of those climatic episodes when Ferenginar has little to envy to Lakat’s rainy days,” Garak shrugged. “They entwine with sun however.” The meteorological predictions ended and another man appeared onscreen, elegant but strict, clad in military uniform.

“Now, this is Kayen Vaker,” Garak said and explained while the man on screen talked. “He’s one of the public Annunciators; he is often on screen to inform the population of the upcoming trials – who did what and when the trial will take place, on which channel it will be aired, with which Archon and,” he smiled cunningly, “which Conservator.” Melekor nodded and both of them returned their attention to the screen, where Vaker finished to enunciate the program of trials for coming week.

“And now,” he raised his voice, “the Justice, for Sengor Merek, guilty of treason. The defense is held by Conservator Nall Rokat. The judgement is stated by Archon Imal Kern.” Melekor froze the second he heard his father’s name.

“It begins,” Garak vibrated. “Oh, of course it’s going to be a briefing of the case first,” he waved his hand. “The interesting and entertaining part starts after,” he told while the face of the accused was displayed and a narrative voice started to introduce him so people could better understand what sort of person he was.

“So... what’s the punishment for treason?” the other finally managed to ask, but found it a bit difficult to speak.

“It depends of the offense. Here Merek is guilty of having sold Cardassian technology to Lissepian traders without Central Command’s approval. Enzyme synthesizers are considered bio-medical technology, so that’s a pretty high offense. Considering the medical field, he might end up handed to scientific research, or sent into forced labour if they’re lacking workers. We’ll know for certain when the trial starts. I am certain your father’s defense will be excellent.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Melekor admitted, “all my life, all I wanted was to know everything about this man, but no matter how long I’ve spent longing for it, I suppose I’ll never  _ actually _ feel prepared. It’s a little bit unsettling.”

“It’s a moment you live only once, a light you cast on the darkness of ignorance… And if there is one thing our brain  _ hates _ , it is ignorance. We populate it compulsively with theories, concepts and hopes issued from our imagination, and so, learning the truth means slaughtering all those children-thoughts we created,” Garak rubbed the other’s shoulder comfortingly. “No matter what will come as revelation, it  _ will  _ most probably feel like a deception, because you  _ will _ deceive those thoughts that live in you. They grew there, they supported you, comforted you, and you are now going to betray them?” Garak looked in the black eyes. “No… this is no betrayal. They have served you well, they have served their purpose, and you should maybe take this moment to remind them that they were never meant to stay. Be kind to them, but bid them farewell. Let them go in peace,” he placed his other hand on Melekor’s heart. “It wouldn’t be fair either to force them to compete with the truth. Be kind to yourself, Kel,” he spoke as he would to a child; his child.

A flicker of concern crossed Melekor’s face, and he reached a hand to remove Garak’s from his chest, looking between him and the screen. What he said was true, it did align with what he’d already stated to himself: his father was perfect. He worshipped him.

“He became God to me,” he finally put it into his own words, “What happens to God when we are forced to realize he’s but a man?”

“There never were gods, Kel, only men,” Garak corrected.

The young man drew a deep breath; his mother must  _ not _ know that he was about to do this, watch this trial, see his father… She’d be angry. And not just at him, he realized.

“Are you able to... defend yourself from telepathic intrusions?” he asked suddenly, “I’d rather my mother is kept in the dark about this – if I can manage to lie to her, I wish that you would, too.” He still held the other’s hand though, but more to keep him at a safe distance.

“I had a feeling she would not approve of this,” Garak nodded, gesturing at the screen.

“Indeed. She has forbidden me to ever approach him in any sense of the word. I think, if she knew about this, she’d...” he sighed and leaned back in the chair, “She  _ did _ threaten myself and Lykes that if we didn’t do as we were told, she’d make sure our requests for visum be declined. And I don’t doubt she’s capable of it – I don’t idolize my mother, Mister Garak,” he finally decided to tell  _ someone _ , “I love her, but I don’t idolize her. She’s got... questionable morals, and she tends to get what she wants, in the end.”

“I mean no offense, but I had  _ noticed _ ,” the tailor replied with relief. “And, if I should be honest, I was  _ quite _ counting on this night staying just between us. I can’t say I share the feelings you have for your mother, though I can relate to them… I suppose we, Cardassian, may have a stronger instinct to love and protect our family.”

“That would explain why I already love my father so much without knowing him…” Melekor nodded – he interrupted himself as the trial began.

The presence of children in the courtroom added another layer, not only to what Garak had said about childishness, but to Melekor’s feeling for it. It was all a symbolism, and he could well appreciate it. The Archon was seated in her chair, elevated above the rest (yet another symbolism), and on the floor, below, was Melekor’s father. He was significantly older than in the photo, and more frail-looking somehow. But even as streaks of white had sought their way into his mane of hair, his eyes were full of energy, both vivid and empathetic at the same time. The softness that reflected inside of Melekor’s chest was unlike something he’d  _ ever _ felt before, even for his own mother – the intensity of it was terrifying.

The Archon announced the name of the accused, his crime and the sentence for it, but her voice was distant to Melekor. His mind regained full clarity just after however. His father, the Conservator, spoke, declaring to the leader of court with a loud, yet gentle voice, that his client was ready. The camera shifted focus, as Merek entered the room. Instantly, the Archon’s eyes set on him, and she asked of him to spare his family and himself any further shame by confessing. Merek seemed at a loss for words at first, but finally nodded in submission. Melekor noted, that at this point, someone else was taken into the room – a woman. He wondered who she was, until the Archon informed her that this was her chance to disassociate herself from her husband by witnessing against him. She looked towards Merek for only a short moment, before agreeing to do so. What followed was a brief witness statement from her, in the witness chair, where she told of personality flaws she’d seen in her husband: he’d get drunk too often for her liking, and that she’d never known that he had illegal contacts, but that it did explain their diminishing intimacy during the late evenings.

After her statement, another person came to testify about the man’s illegal doings although he did not have to be too clear about Merek’s methods of smuggling, how he operated and how he was caught – it made sense not to give clues to the population as to how to take up the man’s business where he left it. Then Merek was forced to take the witness’ stand too, where he stood for a while, looking lost.

When he didn’t seem to be able to talk, the camera shifted to Melekor’s father again, who approached the seat. He asked him about the affair he had had with another woman, after which Merek more or less broke down and confessed that he no longer loved his wife, but that he hadn’t wanted to abandon the obligations he had taken upon enjoining her. Nall asked him why he had been so desperate as to trade with the enemy, and he’d answered that he wanted to give something of value to his children, that at least he loved  _ them _ and that he had lost judgement due to his pain and guilt over having fallen out of love with his wife. After this Nall, turned to Archon Kern, clasping his fingers together.

“I rest my case,” he said, gracefully returning to his seat, where he sent Merek’s ex-wife a compassionate look. Short thereafter, the judgement fell again – Merek was guilty of treason, and the punishment was to be submitted to the Ministry of Science, to further scientific research, sentence taking effect immediately.

Melekor returned to his body only because the trial ended with silence and the removal of the offender, and once he was aware of himself again, he realized he’d been crying through nearly all of it. He wasn’t sad, though; it was something else, much warmer, much softer, and infinitely more loving. It actually hurt a bit. He hadn’t felt something like this since the two days when he’d lost his pet squirrel and pet cat. He  _ needed _ to take care of Nall Rokat. It was illogical, but it was what he felt.

“Your father,” Garak said with solemn Cardassian pride, “is a talented man, with an amazing skill in entering the very core of his appointed clients and bringing out the taint that corrupted them and led them astray.” He silenced a moment to study the other, staring at him with unwavering blue eyes. “Mister Kel, I believe it is my turn to ask you this,” he spoke again. “Can you resist a telepathic intrusion from your mother?” Melekor lifted his arm to dry his tears away on the sleeve, then kidnapped a napkin to hide himself in, while blowing his nose ever so slightly. The question was a fair one, even though he had wished it wouldn’t have come up. 

“I don’t know,” he answered in honesty, “I think I’ve gotten better at it. Last time she tried – earlier, this afternoon – she reached the third level only because Lykes made the mistake of melding with me in an attempt to help me. It was most unwelcome,” he muttered as he dabbed his nose with the tissue, “especially since I’d already warned him that he might end up seriously hurting himself if he attempted such a meld at such a point – Vulcans are not supposed to split their consciousness into fours, and I  _ am _ working on establishing a fifth-” there he paused, realizing that maybe Garak’s techniques had nothing to do with his, considering his were ancient Betazoid in nature, rather than Cardassian. The tailor still recorded every single word.

“You’ll have to tell me about this,” he smirked, his gaze still focused and intense. “And we’ll have to make sure your mother does not break in either of us – I do hope she wouldn’t be foolish enough to push her chance around me, of course. Assaulting an unfortunate Cardassian tailor would reflect poorly on her…” Too bad, really, that Garak couldn’t press charges against her, were it to happen. “You know that…” he said more cautiously, “if she pursues going to Cardassia with you, she  _ should _ have to stand trial for her crime. That of robbing you from your father,” he brought up with profound serious and graveness. “If she loves you, she  _ must _ face the consequences of her foolishness.”

Melekor stared at him, dumbfounded. He’d never considered it like that, and his blood boiled with further anger as he realized she’d  _ knowingly _ done something illegal, and now intended on blackmailing his father into recognizing him as legitimate child when she was the one to have robbed him in the first place.

“I never wanted her to come along,” he burst, exasperated, “all I wanted was to meet my father – as a complete stranger unrelated to him if I had to – and then I’d-” he blinked, and added in a hurry to cover up the almost-slip he’d made- “then I’d move on, I guess.” Somehow, Garak had guessed just what the other chose not to say, but chose not to comment on it. He’d felt the intention, and it was one that echoed far too easily with similar ones he’d had during the past two years especially.

“I believe he wishes to meet you, but maybe you should know something about your father. He has thinned these past years. Nall Rokat is an example of Cardassian droiture,” he smiled and got up, aiming for his nightstand. “After your mother left him, he took a wife, whom he loves dearly. For the past three years, she has been ill, and he has been accompanying her through this ordeal, walking a world from which her memories rapidly fade into oblivion,” he told bitterly as he picked the rod he’d prepared for his guest and returned to the couch. “It is terrible to see the person you love decaying, forgetting everything, everybody…” It was such an un-Cardassian disease… He closed his eyes as he closed the drawer too. He sighed, and turned to Melekor, blue eyes blooming open again. “Forgetting friends, family, even her own son. You have a step-brother, Melekor –” it was getting to be too upsetting to call the Cardassian by Ywanna’s family name when it kept on reminding him of Kel and Palandine; Melekor might be on way to reunite with his family, Garak had no such hope to retrieve his own.

The young man stared at the tailor, repeating his last words in his mind. The realization that Garak had had the  _ audacity _ to contact Nall Rokat about this all was quickly outshone by emotion; he  _ had _ to be there for his father, his father actually  _ wanted _ to meet him. And he had a step-brother. A  _ brother _ . He’d always wanted a sibling, and now he learned he already had one. He held his breath, tears forming in his eyes again – how his brother must suffer, having his own mother forget him…

“How old is he?” he asked in a whisper, one that implied that he really rather asked  _ how small is he? _

“Ah, my dear…” Garak placed a hand on his shoulder, “Do not rejoice too fast. He is twenty-two and…” he closed his eyes again, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. Instead he placed the rod in Melekor’s hand. “This is a book you should read if you haven’t yet. It’s a classic of Cardassian literature and a summit in the genre of repetitive epic. It tells of the life of a model family through several generations. I believe it might help you to anticipate certain… reactions.”

“My step-brother, he’ll hate me, won’t he?” the young man figured already, paling.

“Your existence is a threat to his and your father’s careers and social lives,” Garak dodged a direct answer. “I cannot pronounce myself on someone else’s feelings, but I can express a certain statistic likelihood for such an eventuality. But if it should reassure you, some families have gone through worse situations  _ quite  _ unscathed – in all due  _ relativity _ , of course.”

“I think the question is whether they would be  _ willing _ to go through such a situation for me, or whether I’d be willing to let them,” he looked down at the rod, then lowered it. ”This is not what I wanted,” he whimpered helplessly, “I don’t want to be yet another burden for these people – I, I just wanted to  _ find _ something. Find  _ myself.  _ What’s missing – something’s always been missing.” He swallowed hard, then backed away, turned and went to the couch, where he sat and sunk together like a sack of potatoes. “It’s my mother’s fault,” he admitted to himself. She’d shoehorned herself into this, and now everything was about her: what she wanted, what she  _ demanded _ , what she was willing to do to Melekor’s father, and by extension his family. “I never asked to be born away from my people, or raised to be a monster,” he muttered through clenched jaws.

“A monster with a kind heart then,” Garak passed behind the couch. He laid his hands on the other’s shoulders, massaging them in a way that was relaxing rather than anything sexual. “I  _ know _ what a monster is… and I know a kind heart when I see one. If you should know, you’re a talented young man with the name of a quite fine man. Nall’s father, actually. Melekor Rokat.” The engineer relaxed a bit into the touch, but smirked joylessly at Garak, craning his neck backwards to squint up at him.

“So, I was named after a man I never met, who is so close to my father that he’ll either detest me for carrying his name, or be weak towards me for the same reason. What an ingenious deceit on my mother’s behalf,” he muttered the last words, marvelling at how good it felt to speak freely about her, “In the event that he doesn’t hate me, I’ll never know if it’s genuine or due to her manipulation,” he frowned, “Why did I ever think I could evade her?”

“Your father is a Conservator, Melekor,” Garak replied more surly. “You should trust him better than this to navigate emotions, manipulations and deceit. It is  _ his _ profession, after all. But it is true that your mother has an admirable mind for those games; someone should maybe write a book about this all,” he couldn’t help but suggest. “Unfortunately, this isn’t fiction to us, and I have to wonder what the ending will be like,” he patted the other’s shoulders. “Do you think now might be the right time to open a bottle of Kanar? Although we might want to keep the alcohol for later if you still want to dazzle me with your engineering skills,” he offered a way out of the emotional turmoil.

“I’d rather do the latter,” the young man seized the opportunity. “I could tell you about interphasic coil spanners or phase matrix recalibrators, but it takes a different depth of knowledge to showcase said knowledge.” he couldn’t help but mention a Cardassian tool, secretly wondering if Garak would notice and realize his guest had managed to find enough technological manuals in the computer to keep him company for days. “By the way, are you sure you didn’t change your mind about that replicator of yours...” he teased with a grin, “because I  _ do _ trust you have  _ nothing _ to hide there, or do you?”

“Haha, and why would I?” Garak laughed but shielded his mind. “You have such ideas, my dear… No, no, I haven’t changed my mind. I’d love to see you  _ increasing _ my quality of life along with the temperature of this room.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Then Melekor just went to pick the tools and additional materials he’d brought and neared a panel. Garak followed him at once.

“I’m eager to see you at work,” he said with energy, eager indeed to see  _ how _ exactly the other was going to work, “I’ve rarely ever gotten to see the insides of the station – well, except when my Cardassian brethrens decided to tear this whole place apart upon leaving.” Melekor hummed a little; his mind already wandered through the plating and into the wiring he could almost sense behind the walls.

“They did a good job at it,” he appreciated as he sidestepped, sitting on his knees just right to the fourth cover to the right of the door, “not perfect, though,” he rooted around in his bag and withdrew his own custom-made coil spanner – unlike its Starfleet companion, it had been designed with Trillian technology in mind, and had twenty additional settings available, providing him with a perfect fit for the bolts holding the wall panel in place, acting as an eloquent replacement to the Starfleet EJ-7 interlocker. “I saw they tried to delete the database,” he told casually, “the fragmentation was impressive, but frankly, if that’s what they call encryption... ah,” a clunking sound told him that he’d loosened the panel and he could slide it to the side, sticking his head into the mess that was there, “Starfleet,” he muttered, indicating three glaringly obvious alterations – glaring to himself, at least. “Alright, let’s get started.”

He put his coil spanner aside and fished a flux coupler of Cardassian design from his bag, balancing the two tips on each side of a wire. “This requires speed,” he told Garak as he fished up one of his small, custom-made circuit boards from his bag, “too much of a delay, and a signal will go to OP’s to tell them that there’s an energy malfunction here, and they’ll surely send someone to check it up – however,” he continued before the other could emit a protest, “if I  _ don’t _ do this, the computer will register energy usage here correctly, and you  _ don’t _ want to appear like you’re siphoning abnormal amounts of energy from the station’s reserve.” He took a deep breath, this  _ was _ one of the more nervous moments, “What this does,” he held up the computer chip, “is that it corrupts the readings. It sends a constant signal that energy consumption is in level with average expectations. In other words,” he grinned, “it’s a  _ deceitful little bitch _ .” Technician slang was everyday food to Melekor; he didn’t even think about the reality behind the words anymore.

It took him about a second to snap the cable off and attach it to the slot in his chip, which he then attached on top of the true circuit board with the coil spanner. “There,” he grinned and rubbed his hands on his knees, straightening up a little, “now we need to wait a while before continuing,” he pointed at the blinking light indicating that the chip was turned on, “I need to keep an eye on this. Once the light doesn’t blink anymore, it means she’s integrated in the system and can begin her undercover mission. It can take anything between seconds to minutes. If it hasn’t happened within  _ five _ minutes, you’re basically fucked. But I don’t think that will happen here; these systems are  _ slow _ .” Garak had to admit that Melekor’s manners weren’t entirely crude. In fact they held a good amount of daring.

“This does look like something out of a holonovel; it is really quite entertaining to see it for real! May I look just a little closer?” he asked, fascinated. He produced his virtual data magnifier from his pocket and locked the monocular in the ridge circling around his eye. Turned on, the device overlaid various informations, including energy levels in the conduits and wires. It  _ would _ be highly unwelcome if OP’s were to receive any signal coming from  _ his _ quarters, but thankfully, Melekor seemed to be doing a good job.

“Well, well, I know nothing about those things, except some lines I’ve read in various books,” he waved his hands, “but it looks quite professional for all I can judge. Is this additional circuit board going to stay there however, or have you considered – how did they say that again? – ‘ _ relegating the records in additional line items fragmented through the system, _ ’ I think the exact quote was?” He chuckled a little, “Probably doesn’t mean anything in your jargon, but that maneuver consisted in adding additional records of energy used by many subroutines to account for the actual loss of power. If the loss is only hidden, it will still appear at some point through material evidence, I guess. You can pick just one strip of latinum in a Ferengi’s vault, but it will only go unnoticed for so long before it gets obvious – a lesson Quark and Rom are still practicing on a regular basis…”

He took a step back and continued, still innocent, “I believe that kind of programmation was like Ferengi business. It’s all about declaring many small costs in structural functions to hide a higher non-vital expense and dodge contributions to the Nagus without having to keep any trace of the bill,” he pointed at the circuit board. “Because  _ this _ would be incriminating, while an alteration of subroutines is a lot harder to trace.” Melekor sent Garak a look of disbelief, then burst out laughing.

“Mister Garak, with all due respect, do you know how many megajoules extra heating use up? You’d have to... make a kilometer-long record of extremely unnatural and  _ suspicious _ amounts of smaller activities, and that in itself will be harder to explain than this,” he shook his head. “With this, there won’t  _ be _ a record. The only possible downside I can see is if everything was supposed to be taken offline she’d still send out normal values, which is a bit impractical, but easy enough to deal with manually,” he shrugged, “And really, what reason would anyone have to suspect a  _ tailor _ of keeping something incriminating in his walls?

“You’d be sorry to know how prejudiced the security personnel of this station can be, and I’d be sorry as well if they were to find something incriminating.” The light on the chip went off and Melekor dedicated his attention to it again.

“There, she’s done,” he smirked, “See,” he continued as he fished out the appropriate tool, moving to the next task, “when fighting hardware, use hardware. It’s more of a power struggle to me,” he pointed out as he detached one wire and stuck it in another slot. “ _ That’s _ where it’s supposed to be,” he pointed out, “I’m sure she’s very glad to be back home,” he shook his head, then repeated the process on another wire, licked his thumb and picked the jumper from the bag, sticking it in one of the now-empty slots, then attached the second circuit board to it, “Could you imagine trying to explain what you replicated that used up to five megajoules within an hour? Why build for yourself a situation where you have to lie, instead of just avoiding the risk entirely?” He took a moment to lock the boards together, “Now you should be able to up the temperature to a maximum of two hundred degrees. Not that I recommend it, mind – and do make sure to keep in mind  _ what _ you keep in the room before you go to the extreme temperatures.Things might melt, or catch on fire.”

“Well, thank you,” Garak gave him bit of a look, “I shall keep this in mind if I ever feel like frying eggs in their shells. I  _ doubt _ I would attempt this, however. And do you know that this station has a great number of subroutines related to cleansing of the main core power unit, which are all about reporting power losses in the generators when they power off as part of their normal functioning?” He shrugged a little, “The engineers on this station are quite talkative, you’d be surprised the number of things I’ve overheard. I never could imagine what use I’d ever have for those bits of information. Until now,” he smiled, almost as an invitation for more questions.

It was one thing that Garak likely knew more than he let on about these things, another thing entirely that he had dared be smug and condescending about it. Melekor had to take a deep breath not to snap back at him instantly – he was starting to suspect the other had agreed to let him help solely so he could make fun of him.

“Right,” he got to his feet, leaning a little against the wall, ”use the extension, or don’t. At any rate, they might be able to trace the elevated energy usage to this subsection of the station, but they’d be pretty hard-pressed to pinpoint the actual source,” he glared surly at Garak, then softened a bit, “Though I guess if you were to access higher level records, create a small program that would divide the energy consumption over a lot of spread out small things in all the nearby quarters, I guess you could feasibly shield yourself.” He felt peeved that Garak had had a point after all. It meant that he wasn’t going to impress him with his own expertise – and it was his  _ only _ expertise. To be had like this, by a tailor! Melekor had rarely felt so humiliated and daft. The other tightened his lips.

“You’re certainly very right, and it might even so happen that some access codes I remember overhearing back when this place was known as Terok Nor  _ may _ even still work,” Garak agreed. “I hope you don’t see me as overly paranoid, but as the only Cardassian left behind after the Occupation ended, I  _ am _ subject to certain rumors. And Constable Odo takes the least opportunity he can to snoop up and try to find  _ any _ possible proof that I might be some kind of spy,” he sighed.

“Spy or not, you’re certainly not  _ just _ a tailor,” Melekor hadn’t meant to say it as a threat, though once it had left his mouth, he figured it sounded less positive than he’d meant it.

“I’ll give you that I’ve also been a botanist for a number of years, and I was very good at it,” Garak laughed.

“And I’m not  _ just _ a technician,” Melekor tried to soften. “Though admittedly, it’s the only thing I’m good at,” he made a weak smile. “At least in Trillian terms. Seems like I squandered my chances to show off, didn’t I?” he sighed at himself, wondering whether all Cardassian tailors were so well-versed in technology, and if they were, he wondered what their  _ actual _ technicians were like. 

“Admittedly, I  _ have _ a gift for many things that aren’t part of my profession, unless you’d call me a professional hobbyist,” the tailor grinned, figuring the other’s thoughts. “ _ No _ , all Cardassian citizens aren’t like me. And they aren’t like you either. Most technicians I’ve known here, in this place were either too young to be here – children with nothing but their military education – or tired, disheartened seniors with so little passion to do more than the minimum that I still wonder how we even managed to keep the Bajorans under control. With what you did here, on this station, with those tools, teaching yourself,” he gestured at the panel, “I can tell you  _ are _ more skilled than the average. I’m impressed, Melekor. And this is one honest opinion,” he stated. The engineer didn’t believe him however. He knew he must inspire some sort of pity, especially considering his family situation and everything, and so he simply gave him a wry look and decided the topic was no longer desirable.

“How about you show me your programming skills? I’d be pleased to learn,” he asked instead. Garak contemplated the demand.

“I don’t teach. I am a simple tailor, and tailors don’t teach programmation,” he said. “My… opportunities to make a living are restricted, much more than yours. Don’t get me wrong, I  _ love _ being a tailor, but really, that’s all I am capable of doing, if you’ll understand. Now, if I rely on those movies and books I’ve enjoyed before, and certain amusing things I’ve overheard, I could probably attempt a little bit of programmation to do what I suggested before, but this’ll require some tools that I… happen to have stumbled upon and kept as souvenirs of Terok Nor – please do not mention this to anyone, I believe Bajorans especially might find the mere idea to be quite offensive,” he added with great care to remain politically correct.

“And I’ll just happen to be here to observe you,” Melekor nodded along, extremely curious about what the other might have up his sleeve, “Nothing worth mentioning to anyone else,” he smiled, satisfied with this agreement, though it took some willpower not to start bouncing on the spot like an idiot. He was blushing too, probably in enthusiasm.

“Passing on some dresses will make for a perfect sequel to those girly activities,” Garak joked and went to collect his tools in the bathroom – a perfectly normal place to store souvenirs. Melekor seized that opportunity to look around in hope to find some of the stash of treptacederine, but in vain. Garak came back too soon, and the young engineer only had the time to pretend he was innocently looking around.

The tailor didn’t comment. Instead, he squatted by the panel and established contact between a comlink and the internal computer with expert moves, and started to program, speaking what he typed as he did, and making some comments – solely to remind himself of what he was doing and why, of course. When the computer required some authorization access and identification codes, he produced a variety of them. In the end, he fooled the computer into adding a variety of subroutines to the generators associated to airlocks and docking clamps, due to their fast rotations. “This should be fine now, and discreet enough that it should go unnoticed,” he finally removed his monocular and disconnected his tools before letting Melekor close the panel.

“Very attractive piece of technology,” the engineer commented towards the eyepiece, not daring to ask to try it in case it would be too intimate. Then he realized how awkward he’d phrased himself and washed it away with a smirk, “You  _ are  _ quite an artist,” he said. Garak was a, perhaps, a  _ deceitful little bitch _ in his own right (not that Melekor would ever say that to him), because there was no way he hadn’t gotten formal training in this. All he’d done had been outright and expertly so, polished to perfection; incredibly smart. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone weave together commands in a manner so fluid before,” he added more nervously, intimidated by the other’s brilliance.

“I know you understand enough for this to be humbling, but please, do not see me as more than your local tailor. This,” he gestured at the devices, “is not me. It’s only skills I possess, but they are  _ not _ who I am. I suppose it is sometimes more comfortable to define ourselves through what we can do, but if you ask me who I am, then I am Garak, a simple tailor who loves Cardassia. I love her, Melekor, and I hope she can use you as much as you could use her. Here,” he handed him the eyepiece he’d just wiped, “a practical tool if you’d like to try.”

Melekor accepted the piece as gently as he had been handed it, and found it remarkably easy to put it in place, then blinked a bit at all the information it suddenly shared with him. He had to twirl around on the spot to get a better overview of things. What was far away was more subtly described, whereas things close to him – he turned to look at the wall – were rather more fascinating. Then he looked at Garak, who was his normal self – he didn’t emit any radiation. In short, Garak wasn’t a robot. Not that Melekor had ever entertained the notion. 

“I hope you’re right,” he told him, smiling a little. “It must really be... painful to be away from what you love,” he noticed he was getting emotional, and steeled himself a little, “unless you expect her to reach back out here someday?”

“I don’t exactly hope for the latter, or at least not in the way it used to be,” Garak said. “But we are living through times of change. Hopefully, someday, I’ll return there… and if we are worthy, it’ll be a beautiful day,” he nodded. “Now, now, the future is something to build,” he gathered his tools and took them back to the bathroom – “You can keep the eyepiece, I’ll replicate another one,” he winked at Melekor.

“Oh, thank you!” burst Melekor after Garak’s back, caught up in the fact that he was actually, genuinely  _ happy _ about it. Carefully, he took the magnifier off, then tucked it into one of the inner pockets of his canvas bag, where it couldn’t get damaged – it was  _ such _ a nice gift. He couldn’t recall the last time someone actually gave him something so caring ...before recalling what Timun had done for him just hours before. The display, the attempt to help him. Melekor shushed the memory away. It didn’t matter, Timun left him anyway, and he’d rather keep on enjoying the nice moment Garak was providing him with.

“I hope you trust me enough,” the tailor shot from the bathroom, “or if not me, my taste for fashion!” he came out with three dresses at his arm. “What about we switch to another activity, and a lighter mood too?”

“Must we?” the young man whined a bit, though he already knew it was what they had agreed on. Didn’t mean he was going to be all nice and whatnot about it, “I’m not sure I’m drunk enough,” he continued further, wishing he could turn into someone else entirely, “didn’t you mention something about Kanar before?”

“Fine, I guess we can have  _ one _ glass first if you really need an excuse,” Garak picked the bottle from the fridge and fetched two glasses. “I want you to still hold onto your legs when you try on the clothes,” he filled both glasses and offered one to Melekor, leading the both of them to the window.

“To the most pleasant Cardassian company I’ve had in too many years, a fine young man with great talent and daring creativity,” he cheered, lifting up the blue drink. Melekor blushed a little at the sentiment; he hadn’t been prepared for such flattery. He almost wanted to tell Garak off, but that would’ve been rude.

“And to you, who have brought me more joy than I have had for a long, long time,” he answered, lifting his glass too, to Garak. Then they sipped on their drinks, and Melekor thought about the Kanar, the stars reflected in it, and in Garak’s glass too, and his eyes. All of it so crisp, fresh and blue. Once he figured he’d kept eye contact enough for it to become strange, he looked out the window again. Somewhere in that vast darkness, he had a father and a brother, and he might ruin their lives... and to what end? So he could kill himself in peace?

“You know…” Garak decided to interrupt the other in his thoughts, “if you need help again, you should tell me. Who knows, I may even be able to help. After all, I’ve acquired some talent in patching things up and weaving various sorts of ties. And… I’ve seen too many people fall down pits and die in there because they simply didn’t ask for a hand to get out. There’s a life out of the pit, and just because we don’t see it when we’re down there doesn’t mean we shouldn’t plan for it. You can’t foresee the unknown, but you can decide to face it,” he lifted his glass and sipped from it again. The engineer lowered his glass and sighed deeply, leaning against the window frame, looking at the stars that were below them. Was he really that transparent? Or was Garak somehow capable of reading his thoughts? he started to wonder.

“I  _ had _ planned for it,” he told in honesty, “my plan was to find my father, figure out if I could meet him as ...me, or as... someone else... Once I’d done that, I would try to find a role in Cardassian society. I’m a good engineer. I’d adapt to standards, protocols and technology in no time. If that didn’t work, however,” he sipped his Kanar, “the idea was that I’d end myself,” he smiled at his own reflection. “But my mother has ruined it all, and it would be one thing if she ruined it only for me – I could live with that. I  _ have _ lived with that. But this? I  _ can’t _ let her do this, and the only solution I can think of is either killing her, or myself. And it really seems the most humane to pick myself.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Garak denied. “I’m not going to speak about feelings or equality, because they are irrelevant in Cardassian framework. But I insist. You are right, you are a good engineer and you’ve already proven how fast you can adapt. Again, don’t discard yourself already just because you can’t fathom the fabric of the future. It’s already too late to kill yourself. Your father knows of you. If you die, it’ll only mean he failed to find you  _ and _ to protect you. He’s already losing his wife; if it is he whom you care for, then do what you must to spare him the pain of having to die knowing he had a son he never could hold, never could meet and never could protect. This is not emotional blackmail, it’s flat logic. What you decide to pursue is your choice, Melekor, but you must know who it is you wish to protect, and who the enemy is before you harm the wrong persons.”

Garak was right, Melekor reckoned. He should have listened to his mother when she told him not to seek out his father.  _ This _ was the punishment for disobeying her, for ever thinking he had a choice in the matter. It was a bitter lesson. He swigged the glass and grimaced at the intense aftertaste, “Didn’t I tell you that I’m a monster?” he asked Garak with a nondescript expression, not letting him know any of his thoughts beyond that.

“And what do I care?” the tailor replied, not letting show his ‘ _ not this again _ ’ feeling. He emptied his glass and went to set it on the table. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. “Sometimes, it’s what it takes to experience a different perspective.” And as he said so, he faced the other and started to take off his own clothes in a near defiant attitude, almost aggressive with confidence. “Computer, increase temperature to forty five degrees,” he ordered while folding his shirt before putting it on the table.

Melekor complied near instantly, without making any fuss – he was quite sure Garak had probably seen a lot of declothed people, and that he wasn’t too judgmental in that regard. What did bother Melekor, however, was that he had no idea what a normal Cardassian was supposed to look like, so he made sure to undress just a bit slower than Garak, so he could watch him this time, to try and pinpoint whether he himself had any obvious flaws.

He had to note that Garak did have a fascinating body, delightful to look at, really. He would seem to be strong and capable, where Melekor, in contrast, was perhaps a little less fit, and more towards the weak side of the spectrum – scrawny would have been to exaggerate as he did have fat in healthy places, but in comparison to Garak, it would seem that most of the relevant muscles simply had decided not to show up. The fact that Melekor hadn’t done anything to build them in the first place, was something else entirely.

Once he wore nothing but his white underwear, he hugged himself as to hide himself, and looked dismissively to the side.

“What now?” he asked in a small voice.

“Dress of course,” the tailor laid the dresses he’d picked on the bed so the other could choose. “I believe those should fit your measurements, pick one and I’ll help you to put it on if need be,” he smiled with assurance.

Stepping aside, he started to dress as well with the getup he’d selected for himself. It felt dangerous but empowering too as he put on longstockings of charcoal color before entering the dress. A deep purple red with the streamlines of a jacket, it fell straight down above his ankles, save for the front, shorter and ornate with shimmering golden fabric shaped like a Y, which arms spread on the shoulders and down the arms, to outline the sleeves. A maroon belt of soft fabric held everything in place, adding a more sober touch of tidiness to the outfit.

Meanwhile, Melekor silently looked over the three alternatives. The first one was a deep gemstone green; he liked the design, but the material didn’t please the touch of his fingers so he ruled against it. The second one he considered had a  _ very _ flimsy design, and he instantly disliked it  _ a lot _ , though he refrained from telling Garak that. The third was a bony-white color. The design was simple, nearly functional, but still tasteful. It sported a rather deep neckline, clearly designed after Cardassian necks, in particular the diamond shape at one’s chest, and the sleeves almost stopped where they begun – but those were the only thing daring about this dress. The rest of it was a contrast of chaste shyness, with an ankle-long plain skirt – snug, it seemed, but concealing. The fabric seemed thick but stretchy, meant to align to the wearer’s body. He’d never seen something quite so elegant before, and he nearly felt like putting it on would be a crime, even though it was the one he liked the most – he didn’t have the body for it, after all.

“I think I’ll try this one,” he brushed his fingers over the dress he’d chosen, and turned to the other, a bit anxious, “Are you sure it’ll fit on me?” he continued with a doubt.

“My dear, I already  _ have _ your measurements, and unless they changed since I took them, not long ago, I believe this should  _ quite _ fit you,” he approached. He’d been about certain that Melekor would pick it, though the very short sleeves had had him hold a doubt. Even he had held some doubt on whether to put longer sleeves or not when tailoring it.

“There,” he helped the other to get inside, “that’s how it goes.” The young man let him guide him, finding with surprise that the lining was incredibly soft. There were no uncomfortable seams or disruptive folds, only a flowing, natural cover.

“I didn’t think it would be comfortable,” he admitted half-shamefully, “No offense to your tailoring, of course, I just... didn’t think it’d be comfortable, is all.”

“It wouldn’t have been comfortable if not for your Cardassian tailor. Too many species design uncomfortable clothes, especially when it comes to women’s wear, as if their body shapes had to be imprisoned in unpleasant clothing,” Garak sighed as he collected a purse.

“Do you have a mirror?” Melekor couldn’t help but be curious of his looks.

“We’re not done yet,” Garak replied as he produced makeup from the purse, setting it on the table.

“Must we, really?” Melekor whined again, a wrinkle of dismay hinting through the otherwise thick skin of his forehead, “I don’t want to be turned into a...  _ caricature _ of some sort.”

“I mean no offense but you  _ are _ spending quite some energy in being offensive,” Garak opened a small box, took the brush in it and started to paint the inside of his spoon with agile care, “But let’s just wait for me to be done so you can tell me if the result is too caricatural for you.” Almost provocatively, he added blue to some scales of his neck as well, before tracing the shape of his eyes with subtle strokes of eyeliner. He looked at himself in a pocket mirror and set calm blue eyes on Melekor who had taken a seat by his side. “So?” he asked.

“You’re  _ beautiful _ ,” the young man said, realized what he’d said, “not that you weren’t before,” that made it worse, “I mean it’s better than I thought it would be.” Melekor blushed and wanted to die, just a little bit at least, “Do me, please,” he added in a much smaller voice than before, as if he could keep it a secret from the other if he just spoke in a less audible voice. Garak couldn’t help a bit of amusement as he watched the other like a younger sibling

“There,” he held Melekor’s face with one hand so to apply the cosmetic paints as he did for himself. He added a bit of eyeshadow too, with golden eyeliner, to contrast with the stark black of the eyes, subtle lipstick on his thin lips, and painted the neck scales last.

“That tickles!” Melekor jolted and quenched a giggle that had just about gotten out of him already.

“Yes, it does, that’s the  _ point _ ,” Garak winked. “A Cardassian male who cannot control his bodily reactions at the sight of such markings finds himself in a most embarrassing situation… There, this one is about finished,” he had to hold Melekor a bit more firmly and press the brush harder to make the touch less ticklish – sure, it didn’t tickle anymore, but whether it hurt instead or turned pleasurable, the young man wasn’t sure. What he knew was that they were  _ very _ close and that Garak was staring at his scales. It felt like it was getting inappropriate and Melekor caught Garak’s wrist in his hand, smiling a little apologetically.

“Perhaps that’s enough?”

The tailor agreed. Last, he asked him to smack his lips, which felt silly. But once Melekor looked in the mirror, he didn’t immediately recognize himself. And once he realized it was him, he was confused – not that he was sure he understood what about, really. He touched his face, and the mirror image did the same, then he looked at Garak, a bit of a question lingering in his eyes.

“I’m pretty,” he told him in utter disbelief.

“You are ravishing,” Garak echoed. “More so than I even imagined you would turn out. I mean no offense of course,” he added cheekily. “Now, how does it feel to be pretty?” he got up and invited the other to pace across the flat with him a bit. “How does it feel to walk in a dress and be pretty?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Melekor got up with a bit of unsteadiness that didn’t come from the Kanar, but from his and Garak’s words. He frowned a little as he looked up at Garak, “I never felt pretty before – I always wanted to be beautiful,” he told searchingly as he turned around to look at the window again, himself reflected in it – except it wasn’t him. It was someone else, and she was so very elegant, “I never was. Until now,” he mumbled absently as he looked at her reflection. She had the stars embedded in her scales and her eyes, and she was smiling at him. Garak held him, careful and hyperaware.

“Do you think women are beautiful?” he asked softly. “What do you see in the glass?” Looking at his own reflection, Garak saw a man in a dress – feminine beyond his build and mannered to some extent, but a man still. Looking at Melekor, he had no idea. The young man was androgynous enough to be either, even with this boyish haircut… What he felt he might be, Garak couldn’t know for him.

“Me,” Melekor answered distantly, only barely aware that Garak had laid fingers on him, “A part of me,” he elaborated as he tried to feel what he felt. It was difficult. He wasn’t sure he understood what he was feeling, nor why it shocked him so much. Thoughtfully, he ran a hand over his own chest, to the diamond shape, tilting his head to the side, leaning against Garak’s support. He had to wonder what was wrong with him, to act like this, and put poor Garak through it, “I’m sorry,” he added, “I’m ruining your fun with my confusion.”

“My dear, I wasn’t expecting fun tonight, and this night is going beyond my expectations…” the tailor murmured. “This medicine you take,” he decided to bring up the topic, “I came to know of its composition when you were struggling between life and death at the infirmary, suffering from lack. At first, I thought there had to be some sort of error when I saw a large quantity of testosterone in the list of components.” He looked at him, almost sorry to have to go down that road. “Were you told why you should need those hormones when you are already male, and how you can still be so androgynous despite this intake?”

“It serves to balance my hormonal levels,” Melekor answered simply.“That treatment preceded that of the phelenaxinide, it was decided to mix the two of them so to reduce the hassle of having to take two,” he closed his eyes and sighed, he wasn’t sure how to explain it, “I guess there’s something wrong with me, I doubt I would understand the medical reasoning, anyway.”

“The functioning of bodies isn’t more complicated than the functioning of a spaceship,” Garak took them to sit on the couch. “I find it odd and quite unacceptable that  _ you _ wouldn’t know what is going on in your  _ own _ body, as if it belonged to your doctor or your mother more than to yourself.” Was it hypocritical to say such things? Had Melekor been born in Cardassia, his body wouldn’t belong to himself any more… but yet, Cardassia was different.

“I’ve known of certain persons who were born of ambiguous sex, somewhere in between male and female,” Garak revealed. “On Cardassia, such things don’t go unnoticed so easily, because we are meticulous in our medical examinations. As a result, we understand that our bodies are diverse, way beyond what we are given to see. We  _ have _ some issues related to gender roles and procreation, especially concerning females,” he acknowledged, “but we have a place for intersexed individuals. After all, so long as they do their duty, what does it matter what they are like inside?” He looked at Melekor, not so eager about what he was about to say. “Maybe it is time you investigate your insides. The answers you’ll find may change a number of things for your future and any hopes you and your father may have of integrating you to the family.”

“What do you mean, it might change a number of things?” the young man asked hesitantly, not looking at the other. He’d never heard of such things and all he could conclude was that it wasn’t normal. And he didn’t want to be some kind of mutated  _ freak _ . Garak massaged his forehead a bit, lifting the skin along the vertical ridges there.

“Cardassians with functional female reproductive organs are expected to enjoin, carry children and take up their role as parent,” he explained. “Professional activities involving dangerous physical risks, such as being in contact with explosives, or one that would require them to travel a lot, such as freight transporter,” he picked the obvious example, “are difficulty accessible to them, and they are expected to devote themselves to their family – if they really are prone to boredom or depression, they may take up another job that is more compatible with parenting, of course. Individuals who can be considered female are highly valuable to Cardassian society, which means your father would have a much easier time integrating you if you happened to be female inside.”

“But I’m  _ not _ female,” Melekor snapped at the other, getting up and twirling around to glare at Garak, “If I were, don’t you think I’d be unhappy to be a man, or something? I’m just a bit imbalanced, is all,” in an angry couple of steps, he went over to the window and glared at himself. The woman who glared back was just as angry, though somehow Melekor felt as if she was angry for entirely different reasons, “You can’t be  _ both _ ,” he told her, as to get rid of her, “you’re one or the other. I’m very comfortable being myself.”  _ Except you never were this beautiful before _ , suggested the reflection with an arched eyeridge. Melekor closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

“I can’t speak for other worlds out of the Union,” Garak relaxed in the couch, “but in Cardassia, you can be both. We found that it is preferable to let females be men if they want rather than drive them to unhappiness and suicide. And if we allowed them to be men, why should we forbid males from being women too? Of course, we enforce certain limits, because our society relies on a binary vision of gender in matter of social roles and the system is more important than the individuals, but in the end, this would be a fine enough compromise, I suppose. At least, it’s functional enough. Now,” he straightened up a little, “we have no idea of what your internal biology is like exactly, but someone on this station could figure it out for you. And I believe he should even agree to delete all records once the results are known to you,” he suggested.

Melekor held his breath for a moment.

“So... if it were to turn out there’s more to me than there should be, I’m doomed to a life of boredom?” he finally summed up, knowing full well it could be very offensive, so he hurried on; “I guess it’s better I find out now than when I’m registered by the Cardassian Bureau of Identification. I’d rather be prepared in advance.” He wasn’t sure whether he hoped Garak would be wrong or right, and had to face the confusing possibility that he might want both.

“Being a mechanic isn’t the most dangerous job if you’re not aboard a military spaceship,” Garak pointed. “You said yourself that you’re adaptable; I’m sure you’d find an activity that suits you. But before we think about those, you should find first if there is any reason to worry at all.” He got up and walked up to the other, a small smile on his lips, and eyes clearly enjoying what they saw. “How much do you like it, to be this beautiful?” he asked, almost provocative.

“Very,” Melekor mumbled before he turned to look at Garak, who was suddenly a lot closer than he had anticipated, and a lot more imposing. A hot blush tainted his neck and he had to look away, gulping, “I feel... desirable,” he was honest, but it made him nervous, especially since it wasn’t just his neck that had gotten hot.

“You’ve always been,” the tailor said frankly, “but now it seems it would be more like yourself. You are very pretty,” he diverted his gaze a bit. He was blushing too, but more from the awkwardness of the situation – he didn’t want to embarrass the other further. He did feel tenderness, but this was the extent of it, and probably because of Melekor’s family name stirring caring memories. “You should allow yourself to ...love yourself more,” he suggested more shyly.

“That takes self-awareness,” the other clasped his hands behind his back, straightened up and stared through his reflection’s eyes, into the depths of space, while trying to cool the fire within by thinking of spiders. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to find my father. He holds within him both the answers my mother could never give me, and the ones she has, but refuses to share. Through others, you know yourself. And I have always been incomplete,” he glanced at the tailor and realized his neck had darkened in places. “You are very handsome, and extremely intelligent, it  _ does _ make you intellectually attractive,” after all, one honest remark, deserved one in return, “that, or terrifying,” he added in even more honesty. Some of the spiders had returned to him, calming him with their horrifying details – he’d memorized images of arachnids, not to get over his phobia, but to better utilize them in his mentalizing, and they were  _ very  _ efficient as a tool to regain control. “Do you love yourself, Garak?” The tailor’s smile crooked as Melekor turned the tables.

“I do ...my best,” he simply said. Those words did introduce another level to Garak’s presence on the station – if he had to  _ try _ to love himself, maybe being on the station was a way to punish himself for something he felt he’d done wrong? Melekor wondered. Comparing one another was tricky, and it only served to remember Garak how alone the both of them were with their problems. He looked at the stars, silent for a while, then finally spoke again. “What about another glass of Kanar? Now that we are dressed, it would be a shame not to discard our worries to the favor of this blue sweetness…”


	18. Day 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night in North Beraska for Timun and Savras, and another visit of Melekor over Garak's, during which some dark secrets are told.

##  Day 15

 

The trip had been both long and fast as mixed feelings battled within Timun. Eagerness and apprehension challenged each other as he thought of soon returning home. He knew that even though he’d been away for just three weeks, the place would probably feel a bit alien, not because it would have changed, but because  _ Timun _ had changed. So much had happened in such a short time, and the young man felt like he might now feel more familiar with the detention cells of DS9 than with his own bedroom. But they weren’t there yet. 

Once at the spaceport, and after Savras was released from her duty, they took the classy underground express to reach the suburbs of North Beraska, and from there, the tramway navigating through the slums. Timun couldn’t help but think that the wrecked hovercrafts he’d driven as a teen felt safer than this obsolete piece of junk that shook the passengers in a constant noise of agonizing metal, and stank like piss and other things that Timun didn’t try to identify. Garbage, probably. There were scratches and tags on most everything, like an extension of people’s feelings, expressed there for all to see and experience in a vicious spiral of anger, hatred, hopelessness and violence. He’d known of such places, he’d seen them on news reports, but to be there was something else.

Savras told him of several notable locations that they passed but couldn’t possibly see from their wagon.

“-And over there, behind those trees, is the cavern of Brenkzev. It used to host some symbionts, but was deemed an unsafe area after a cave-in that resulted in the deaths of two Guardians.” Somehow, Timun couldn’t help but wonder if the accident was real or a cover up. He was turning paranoid, wasn’t he? She didn’t let him dwell on those thoughts for long as she turned to the right, waving in that direction, “Some three hundred meters past that house over there, is the famous hill of Lekra – though, that’s where it becomes South Beraska,” she wrinkled her nose. “Upper class, the lot of them. They come here sometimes to enrich themselves or feel better about themselves by being part of reality or some shit – yeah, I know, sounds like me,” she cut before he could say anything, “but Lykes, what I do has nothing to do with so-called poverty tourism. They just come and go and change nothing.”

Finally, they reached their stop and got off and into a high, aesthetically pleasing but at-the-same-time poorly maintained skyscraper.

“Level 14,” Savras said as they stepped in the old fashioned elevator, which zoomed up in a slow pace, “Don’t be alarmed if we get stuck, it runs out of power and freezes randomly sometimes. Usually takes it fifteen minutes to recharge when that happens. Not so fun when you’re on a deadline and already running late!” she added the last part with a look that said that yes, that had happened to her.

They arrived on Savras’s floor without any delays however, and could cross the hallway. Once upon a time, the floor had been covered in a carpet, but unlike those on DS9, this one hadn’t really been handled with love, and mostly served as a sponge for vomit, spilt alcohol and dust. Savras tried not to think about it too deeply as she hurried to the middle door on the left side – there were only four apartments: the prostitute’s, hers, and the Klingon’s, and on the other side lived the small family in a larger unit.

Savras’s ‘flat’ was more of a single room that contained everything one might need – an old fashioned fridge, a half-decent stove, a water-toilet-and-shower that one could restrict by a curtain, and a wide bed just by the windows overlooking the glistening facade on the other side.

Savras sat on the bed and sighed, then gesticulated around, “By all means, make yourself at home.”

Timun looked around the flat, not even needing to move to do so. He was pretty certain the place didn’t match a good number of safety norms. It surely had, in the past, but between the lack of maintenance and the lack of upgrade, everything was left to decay. Still, he smiled.

“It’s a lot nicer in here,” he said frankly. “Quite cozy, actually. At least, it feels real. It appeals to my self-loathing in a very romantic way,” he stepped in some more. “Don’t get me wrong,” he looked at Savras, “the borough sucks, the poverty sucks, but if this were a cyberpunk fashion statement, I’d say it’s quite tasteful in the genre,” he kept on examining the place, the details – smaller or bigger damages of all sorts on the walls and floor, remains of stickers that aged to become abstract, and differences of shades in the paint, like a patchwork hiding past secrets erased by the brush.

While Timun was busy marvelling over the rich and beautiful decorations offered by her home, Savras slipped out of her jacket and shoes. Underneath, she was sporting a blue, sleeveless tank-top of a fairly simple design, one that allowed for her muscles to shine through her skin as she flexed a little before she jolted off of the bed and wandered over to the other. She caught him in her arms, dragging him close, then pressed their lips together, deepening the kiss into his mouth before he could protest – he responded at once, grinning inwardly. Some industrial cyberpunk songs played in the back of his mind, reviving certain sensations he’d felt with Melekor. But the young man wasn’t there, and Timun was quite decided to give his girlfriend the attention she deserved. Chasing away the memories, he set his hands on the woman’s sides, tracing down to her hips, and further down behind to grab a buttock in each hand and get a good feel of them. “We haven’t wrestled yet,” he smirked in between kisses, teasing.

“Oh, yeah, you have a point,” she mumbled back and removed herself only long enough to turn the both of them around, shoving Lykes onto the bed – what a lovely mess he was, dressed in those Vulcan garments, but in a highly emotional and expressive state; it was almost poetic. “You know,” she crawled over him to sit across his hips, looking down at him, “you’re always welcome to admit defeat and submit to me, as I think we both know I’d hold the victory here.”

“Oh, but love, this would mean I’d submit to my desire, not to you… How offensive would this be, hm?”  he grinned, holding her hips and stroking them with his thumbs. The temptation to yield was there however. He could feel the heat intensifying where they touched, especially where the bulge in his pants caressed the promise of love and mystery lying between her legs. “...Wouldn't you think less of me…?” he dared to voice his worry.

“Oh, no...” Savras regarded Timun with softness and surprise, leaning over him, a hand on each side of his head, her lips brushing his, “I might like the spice of roughness, but it does take awareness of one’s weaknesses to be truly strong. And...” she kissed him, “losing to me is no failure. On the contrary, I welcome your recognition towards my superiority.” She grinned and moved her hips to stroke herself against him, reaping a satisfactory moan.

“And  _ ending a battle to save an Empire is no defeat _ ,” he quoted in a hoarse voice, writhing underneath. Despite being stronger than her, he felt weaker and humbled. “You’re invading me whole,” he crooked his smile and kissed her lips. “If I surrender, how will you treat this newly conquered land?” he asked, breathing her warmth and sharing his.

“With kind fairness,” she answered him with further kisses. “Tell me first, is there something you absolutely do not want to do, in matter of sex?”

“Hurting my partner in ways they wouldn’t enjoy,” he answered first, glad she asked. “I’m very strong, I prefer to be mindful. And as for myself, I don’t enjoy that my privates be tortured,” he winced. “A deal of pain is acceptable for the body, but I like sex itself to keep about pleasure. Those can happen side by side, though. I  _ don’t mind _ …” his smirk against her lips curled in a kinky way.

“Would you say that you have a submissive streak?” Savras observed, moving her hips more slowly as she put her focus into the discussion, delighting only distantly in the pleasure she derived from the soft rocking. “What kind of dominance would you like to be put under? Do you like your lover to be egotistical or do you want to be the center of attention?”

“I thought I was a beast to tame or order around. I’m only just starting to see how that plays along with internalized racism and such issues,” he admitted, stroking her face and brushing her hair with his long fingers. He looked into her golden eyes, a certain fragility in the darkness of his own, and for the first time since he got his glasses, he wished he could see this strange color without needing them. “Now that I’m becoming more conscious of this, I guess it might get more therapeutic. I think I like to be treated like an inferior in the bedroom, because it acknowledges the way I feel about myself. If I can express it here safely, it can be our secret while I strive to reaffirm my worth within society,” he smiled with hot confidence. “I’ve rarely felt so honored but right here, lying under you,” he gazed at her with quick eyes that tried to catch every little detail of this moment to remember it forever.

She hadn’t expected such an intimate confession – everyone had their reasons, be it deep and psychologically complicated like Timun’s, or shallow for the mere entertainment, like hers – but it was true that it mattered a lot to what she wished to do to him, and she felt more tender than she’d done in a long, long time.

“Then you don’t mind if I tie your hands to the bed?” she asked, already straightening up to reach under the bed for the box she kept there, “I’d like you to keep your clothes on. They enhance your beauty, I like them,” she told him as she got up, sat on her heels and fished out the box, “I’ll get out of mine, if you don’t mind; my wear is not nearly as sexy as yours.” She fished out some contents from her cardboard box – a smooth white rope and blindfold in pastel violet silk and showed them to him. Timun looked at them with thrill and amusement.

“So you  _ are _ a kinky girl,” he grinned.

“I’m a  _ woman _ ,” she scolded him a bit as she flung the rope and blindfold onto the half-Vulcan’s chest. Then, she got out of her tanktop and pants, and sat across his lap again, clad in only her honey-golden lingerie. He looked at her, appreciating the sight and witnessing her underwear turn from gold to pinkish silver when he set his glasses on the nightstand. She had a temper he really liked.

“I’m yours, please, indulge me,” he licked his teeth. “How should I lay?”

“Like this,” she pulled his hands over his head, and tied his wrists together – a bit loose to keep it safe – and leaned back to look down at him before getting off. “Now you move, so I can tie you to the bed frame – and don’t mess up your clothes.”

“Your orders,” he grinned. “How should I address you? Major? Or maybe that’s too-” he interrupted himself as she couldn’t help her snickering laughter “-Hehe, thought so,” he chuckled.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized while fastening the rope to the bedframe, “it’s just that  _ Major _ makes me think of Major Kira chewing out Jederza... it was glorious,” she recalled again, then burst into a bubbly giggle. “Maybe ‘Mistress’ is a better alternative? As much as I adore Major Kira, I’m not sure she should be here while you and I share private moments.” She kissed his nose before she got off of him, this time to just look, “You’re very beautiful, Lykes.”

“That’s perfect then, Mistress,” he purred. “I like to be my lover’s beautiful beast.” He felt like he was about to melt, except around his hardening nethers.

“You’re a pointy-eared pervert,” Savras told him like an accusation, before starting to slip out of her panties, touching herself where their absence was the most notable, before moving to her bra, contemplating whether she should keep it on or not; it could be comfortable to have it on if she was going to do a lot of body movements and could use the extra support. And it  _ was  _ a very comfortable bra, “Like what you see? Want what you see?”

“If that bulge in my pants isn’t enough of an answer, then I’d say… yes. Very much, yes,” his teeth shone as he grinned. Savras was simply perfect. Quite athletic muscles showed through her thighs and arms, fat rounded her in places though signs of malnutrition started to take their toll in some areas. She looked absolutely real, unforgiving, and as such, she was perfect. Her markings weren’t completely symmetric, and it made their movement all the more interesting and captivating – they had more fluidity to them, and while that didn’t align with current Trillian beauty canons, the Vulcan liked it all the more this way. It felt more natural. “Your beauty is just as fierce as you are…”

“Aren’t you just the sweetest gift?” She crawled over him again, grabbed the blindfold from his chest, and then sat across said chest, twirling the ribbon between her fingers, “A wild thing in the dress-up of a Vulcan prude; you enjoy this bondage you bring on yourself, do you not? Tormenting yourself with order, when what you really are, is a chaotic mess of emotions and energy…”

“You said it so well, Mistress… I’m a pointy-eared pervert,” he confessed. “I’m a messy paradox, a self-contradiction, but aren’t contrasts attractive?” he shivered and looked at her pale skin one last time before she leaned and laid the lace over his eyes, tying it right next to his left ear.

“You make for standalone beauty, my sweet,” she flattered him. Then trailed her fingers over both his eartips, down to his neck, his collarbones, up to his lips, his cheekbones, his jaw, “You do know that if you want to fuck someone, you have to make them wet first, don’t you?”

“I do, and I’m good at it,” he boasted, which made her smile in delight. It made him all the cuter, a bit boyish even, and she could very much value that. Men, in her experience, were way too anxious in bed, which was why she mostly went with women – at least they didn’t feel like their entire identity hinged on whether or not they were an excellent sex partner. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to use my hands for this however… What shall we do then?” he licked his lips some more.

“You’ll have to use what you have,” she simply told him, moving up above him and pressing her lips against his – only, it wasn’t an innocent kiss this time. With her legs framing his arms and head, she had to lean a bit against the wall to keep balanced – inwardly, she begged that her neighbour would continue being silent for a while longer. She’d usually have clients by now, so the silence was an unusual spot of glory.

Soon, she was the one to break it with moans as Timun smiled in the kiss he delivered, pressing his mouth with softness and nuzzling the soft hair above. He ventured his tongue between her lips, spreading them further apart with cautious moves and coating the place with a slick, wet coat of saliva to make the contacts softer and gentler. He blew fresh air through his nose, playful, and started to explore the delicate reliefs and details of her intimate anatomy, trying to figure which spots were most pleasant and which might be more painful. He tested various movements and various degrees of pressure and wetness until he felt satisfied with the sounds coming from her as he dug his muzzle further, letting show his eagerness to please. His devotion truly sparked within her, and she moaned and whimpered, feeling herself get wet and hot. She’d scold him, although gently, for being such a perverted Vulcan, but the way she said turned it more into some sort of praise pacing the slow sweetness of her rocking.

When she moved away once more, it was to hurriedly undo his pants and free his erection. She didn’t give him a lot of attention before she sat over it, sliding her wet cunt along its length, sheathing him within her as he exhaled in blissful pleasure.

“You like this, don’t you, devil boy?”

“I do, I do, I like it,” he moaned and arched his hips to get further inside, all with a near-juvenile energy and freedom, pulling on the rope or clinging to it maybe. “You make me… You make me…” he couldn’t name the exact feeling, so he gave up, “Everything,” he blew instead. He was Timun, the rope, the bed and the sky above the clouds, he was Savras around him and he was as good as could be. “You’re my salvation and my purpose,” he murmured almost like an excuse or a plea. “No, you’re much more… You’re a woman,” he grinned almost naively, yet cocky and true in his expression. “And I like your love, Mistress…”

“You little green-blooded deviant,” she leaned over him, possessively pawing on his chest, feeling the shape of his body through the strong fabric, as to lay claim on him, and licked his chin, then his lips, rushing up with her hands over his arms, holding them while she shared kisses down his neck, suckling on the skin there. He was so warm, his presence inside of her was so very welcome. She started to untie the knot keeping him prisoner, and once it was off, she laid the both of them on the side, one leg beneath him, and the other hugging his hips, all while moving. “Don’t you long to touch me, Vulcan?”

“You don’t need to meld to read my mind,” he kissed her, digging a hand in her mane while the other hungrily ran over her body, grabbing, grasping, following the shapes… Still somewhat lost in the darkness of the blindfold, he clinged to her while moving with more and more force. “Mistress…” he moaned like a supplication; his hips commanded him to get on top but he resisted the urge – a self-restraint Savras could appreciate.  “I want to give my all to you…” he whimpered.

“Oh, I bet you do,” she kissed him, one hand at the base of his skull, the other clasped against his chest, “I bet you’re so very horny and so very eager, and you want to fuck like an animal, but you’re my lapdog, and you only do what I tell you, don’t you, little Vulcan pervert?”

“I’m obedient,” he groaned, “Yielding would be… illogical…”

He was getting quite sweaty under his clothes, too hot too, and the uncomfort fueled a kind of anger combusting in lust and need in his hips. His moans betrayed him as their sound became more whiny and frustrated despite the slick embrace he rocked in. And the worse Timun struggled, the more delicious it was for Savras to watch. She, however, wasn’t about to be  _ kind _ to him, instead capturing his free hand and leading it down over her body, to where it was wet, where he was penetrating her.

“Feel,” she moaned into his ear, “pleasure me with your fingers,” she kept her hand on his, to feel his movements, as he made them, to make a better picture of it all.

“You torture me…” he whispered but obeyed nonetheless, spreading her lips with two fingers and stroking the hood of her clitoris. The place had gotten incredibly wet, moreso even than he imagined. “This is too exciting,” he told hoarsely, “I’m going to…” He didn’t dare to finish the sentence, worried he’d hasten the end while she abandoned herself to the blissful sensations – she did nothing to contain herself, filled with the sparkling, electric feeling, and then finally letting it out with a muffled cry. Once she had regained her own breath, still moving, she removed her hand and stroked Timun’s cheek.

“You can cum now, if you want,” she allowed him.

She didn’t need to say it twice. Desire won him over and spasms of pleasure made the last glides all the slicker in a sugar-coated ecstasy, white and high. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, but when he did, the words that left him weren’t exactly those he’d hoped for.

“I forgot to use my hypospray,” he panted. “I’m not sure the last shot’s still doing the job after all this time…”

“Shh, baby,” Savras laid a finger over his lips before she proceeded to remove the blindfold, “don’t worry about it, I’ll take a contraceptive spray after the shower, I have some in the box,” she wiggled her hips a little, then kissed him on the nose, “You really think I’d do that to you?” she asked more seriously.

“I rather  _ I _ wouldn’t do this to you and to your body,” he answered shyly, favoring not to tell of one such misadventure in his younger years – Lixi had been so sure Timun was too Vulcan to lead to this development but what started to grow within her proved her wrong. “Masculine contraception is lighter on our system. Feminine contraceptive sprays aren’t something you can afford using too often, unless it’s a high end product,” he explained. Contraception was still much more favorable than abortion. He took a deeper breath, easing in the relief. “You seemed to like what your Vulcan lapdog did to you, though…”

“I’m glad you noticed that,” Savras teased him, then hugged him and nuzzled his cheek, “how do you feel? Want to take a romantic shower with me – I really have to apologize for the outlay of the shower in this house,” she added, “I don’t know what genius thought it suitable to combine it with the toilet. Well, at least you can sit if you want, and if you happen to pee outside the toilet, it’s no biggie because there are drains in the floor,” she rolled her eyes a little.

“Must have been designed by a man too careless to aim and too proud to sit…” Timun frowned. This truly had to be one of the most horrifying things he’d ever gotten to see. “Is it even  _ allowed _ in matter of  _ hygiene _ ? I think this entire design is plain illegal and…” He looked away. Images he never wanted to think of were sprouting in his mind. “I’m a doctor…” he whispered. “This is wrong and against everything I studied. I think I will have to resort to philosophical musings beyond the punkest ideologies I’ve ever pondered on. There is such a deep symbolism in this object,” he removed himself to look at it better, fumbling to take off his clothes. “It’s like… the embodiment of class war and social stigma.”

Savras tried to contain herself, but a point was reached when she couldn’t anymore, and a bubbling laughter that wouldn’t stop erupted from her. That was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. She had to get up from the bed and over to said toilet rather quickly, as she didn’t want most of the other’s cum to end up on her bedsheets – nor did she want to pee on them.

“I can’t believe!” she burst, failing to stop her laughter for another moment, “I can’t believe my  _ toilet _ just got a love serenade written for it!” She’d started crying from laughter, having to dab her eyes with the back of her wrists, “Dear symbiont Guardians...”

“But I cannot use something that goes against my beliefs!” Timun insisted, continuing to undress. He was conscious of how ludicrous his speech probably sounded but that didn’t invalidate his stance in the least, quite the opposite. “Deep down, most things in this universe are profoundly absurd, but we still give sense to them in order to cope with the absence of guidelines to tell us what to do with our lives and sentience – and I shall pay a thought for the sentient creature who came up with such a design, in total defiance of laws and hygiene norms. What were they thinking? That’s a mystery. Were they mentally capable? We’ll never know. But here is the result, ready to receive the tribute of golden tears from the irrepressible laughter my musing and puzzlement now induces in you,” he stood, impassible and stereotypically Vulcan in his attitude and in the logic of his words. A very pantless, naked Vulcan, but how profound.

Savras was still shaking from laughter as she got away from the toilet, closed it and flushed it. Once she’d calmed down enough to look at Timun, she burst into laughter again, crying and laughing at the same time as she got out of her bra and threw it on the bed.

“Stop being funny and have the shower already,” she plucked his hand and dragged him with her, stopping halfway to hug him, mostly to calm herself down. She sniffled some and sighed, “It wouldn’t be logical not to clean yourself, now would it?”

“Indeed, and I suppose we must make do with what we have,” he nodded. “So, how does it… work?”

“You are  _ too _ precious,” Savras told with honesty and pressed a kiss to his cheek before she led him to the shower and pulled the curtain around them. The space was a little cramped for two, right, but past the first minutes, Timun found that in the end, while this design might be weird and illegal, it wasn’t the worst possible thing either. Maybe he’d been a bit harsh in his judgement.

##  * * *

Somewhere around that time, on DS9, Melekor had dragged himself through the Habitat ring to chime at Garak’s door again. He felt a bit miserable, like he might appear clingy, bothering him two nights in a row – even if the tailor had been the one to invite him over the previous day.

“Mister Kel?” Garak opened and let him in. “You don’t look too fresh,” he noted.

“I’m really sorry,” the engineer shook his head. “Yesterday, we didn’t finish that conversation and I… I need,” he gesticulated. “You said someone could investigate me,” he went straight to the point. “Who is it, and are they capable of shielding their mind if my mother were to…” Garak gestured at him to come in and take a seat at the table, and replicated two cups of tea – Melekor seemed in need of it.

“I’ve thought about it,” the tailor admitted. “I think he could be the one to perform the medical acts, and we the ones to review the results. This way, whatever is found, he won’t know, and what he doesn’t know, your mother cannot plunder from his head either,” he explained – the youth didn’t need to know that Julian was most certainly smart enough to draw conclusions of his own.

“No, it’s not that,” Melekor sighed on his tea. “It’s not the result we need to conceal – my mother already knows whatever there is to know about myself. No, it’s the fact that the examination ever took place. I don’t want you nor… it’s Doctor Bashir, isn’t it?”

“You’re perceptive,” the tailor raised his cup. “What about doing it when she won’t be around to know about it? I believe she’ll have to depart for Trill soon. It might just be the timeframe needed to explore your insides, and maybe yours and Lykes’ visums will get approved timely enough for you to leave before she finds out.”

“I don’t think Lykes is coming with me,” Melekor sighed. “He’s gone back to Trill – I don’t blame him because I... might have hit him and threatened to kill him,” he hid his attention in the tea, sipping some of it, wishing himself away.

“Fair game…” Garak squinted. “Are you  _ certain _ that’s all it takes to get rid of him? That Vulcan-Trill does seem quite tenacious and enduring. And who knows, he might still be willing to go even without you if you’re not there when he comes back from Trill,” he hinted without revealing directly what he knew from Julian.

“No, I don’t think he wants my mother on his tail – I don’t blame him,” he added tiredly, “I assaulted him because  _ he  _ assaulted her. And he assaulted her, because she was assaulting me,” he shrunk backwards in his seat, “I’m not very good at keeping friends.”

“It’s a choice you make,” Garak replied, quite unapologetic. “You follow your duty like you have been conditioned to,” he gazed at him. “This might seem like an unrelated question, but would you kill if ordered to? And I don’t just mean killing in brutal ways, with a phaser at hand or by staging an accident… I also mean political murders. Would you do this?” he asked distantly. “Honestly, I’m not one to judge such acts.”

Melekor blinked a little, tightening his grip on his cup. The idea had never struck him that she’d ask something like that of him; in truth, these past years, she’d left him well alone, and he’d grown too comfortable with catering to his own relatively free will.

“That is a bold implication,” he shot at Garak, setting his cup on the table, “but if I should be entirely honest, I do not think she would ask something like that of me. For everything she’s done to me, she’s never actually offered me anything constructive to use my... skills for. I think I disappointed her,” he added the last part as a hindsight. “During our two-year stay on Ferenginar she taught me telepathic warfare, and... other things,” he swallowed the dryness in his mouth, “She didn’t condition me to get bliss from pain in order to make me resistant to bullies. She did it because an empath needs that conditioning in order to be capable of – of...” he exhaled and took his cup, silencing himself with the tea. He’d already said too much, and he regretted it immensely, as it pulled at memories so vivid they could as well have been the present. Garak could almost feel it and his expression turned a lot harder and colder.

“She made you into a weapon,” he summed it all up. “She knows names. Cardassian names. It would be preferable to know them to know exactly who we’re dealing with, and what fate is intended for you. Has she ever mentioned… someone? An organization?” he squinted, doubting she would have made such a mistake, yet hoping for it. “Maybe places she’s been to on Cardassia or her off-Prime worlds…” Melekor shook his head slowly.

“No, she always made a  _ point  _ never to mention anything Cardassian when I was anywhere remotely close her,” he sighed and sipped his drink, glancing back and forth between it and Garak. “There  _ are _ suspicious names of things she has mentioned, but they were never attached to anything, and only in fleeting subspace conversations not intended for my ears. She’d always use earphones when she spoke to them, so I never got to hear the other half, but some that I do remember are... ah,” he closed his eyes to better focus on each individual memory, “Koval... Tal Shiar, Lek...  Enabran, Crystalline Covenant... Tain, the Ra’Shakiin, Mevreus ...Obsidian Order, V’Shar, Crell Moset, ah... what was the other one,” Melekor frowned, “Lukyas, Luk-kaz, maybe?” he sighed, “The only thing I know about those is that they were all mentioned in weird contexts that you’d struggle to make sense of. I memorized them because I was curious, but I never dared ask her about any of them,” he made an apologetic look and drank some of his tea to soothe himself as he felt very useless, unfortunately so. For once, Garak did very good at concealing emotions he expected to feel, although he allowed himself an amused chuckle.

“Of course, of course…” he shook his head and downed his cup, getting up to get the Kanar instead, and two replicated glasses. He should have known. He should have guessed already. If Ywanna had been in contact with the Tal Shiar while on Romulus, who else but Tain himself would take a greater interest in her? Too bad for her, the man had retired, and it meant Garak could double cross the Betazoid again, to pull his own strings. Why should he do that? Well, maybe it was getting a bit personal now.

Melekor had to wonder what was going on as the tailor started to drink as well, silent and clearly thinking. The young man decided to imitate him, discarding his tea in favor of the sweet blue. Halfway through his glass, Garak finally set his eyes on his guest, slight intoxication and rage making him even more gorgeous and dangerous than usual. He got up. Reached the other. His right hand rested on the table, his left one nearing Melekor’s face, almost threatening. The young man could only stare back at him.

“Next time you have a sonic shower, while you’re at it, scrub those names off your memory or dig them deep enough that nobody may ever find them,” Garak touched the other’s jaw and lifted his chin a bit. With just one jank in mood, he’d changed the entire atmosphere into something dark and slow-flowing. It seeped through the air, through the cracks between Melekor’s scales. He could  _ feel _ Garak inside of him, like an intoxicating presence, leading him to really wonder if Cardassians  _ were _ capable of such a thing or not in the end.

Despite the speed at which his heart was beating, Melekor wasn’t about to run from the situation, instead remaining in the other’s grip, and not just the physical one. A glimmer of a thought occurred to him, wondering what this would’ve felt like  _ without _ the phelenaxinide. A ridiculous concern.

“You underestimate me,” he laid his hand against Garak’s and got to his feet, still maintaining the eye contact, trying to figure out what exactly it was he was feeling, “I kept those well away from my mother all this time, and I only told you because...” he stepped around the table, getting as physically close as he could, as he found it increased the sensation of whatever Garak was doing to him, “...I believe you could use the information to help me. Who is she, Garak? Ywanna, my mother, who is she  _ really _ ?”

“I don’t know ...just yet,” Garak lost himself a moment in the black eyes. “But she is a woman with a knowledge of way too many secret services to still be alive, and this makes her both very fragile and very lethal. When you’ll be on Cardassia, you should keep in mind that whenever, wherever you’ll go, ears will be listening to you, eyes will be looking at you, and those will be the ears and eyes of Cardassia’s State Intelligence. The Obsidian Order,” he told with sharp serious and warning. “If I believe  _ things I’ve heard _ , Enabran Tain was the head of this service until he retired few years ago. I would expect that this man had your mother observed very closely during her stay on Cardassia, to make sure she wasn’t spying for the Romulan Star Empire or any other power, and I would count on him knowing Ywanna became pregnant before she even knew herself,” he took a step back to look at Melekor. “The question is… was your conception planned by Ywanna, or an opportunity for Tain to gain control over her? What deal did they strike exactly? Is your mother turning you into a weapon to hand you to the Obsidian Order?” he squinted. “Or so you might survive it? Either way, it seems extremely foolish to me,” he murmured. There had to be other explanations, explanations he wasn’t seeing yet.

Melekor lazily split his mind in four – one part to feel Garak’s presence and evaluate it, another part to listen carefully, a third part to think his own thoughts and a fourth part to take care of all the physical sensations. The intoxication, the smell of Kanar that they both shared, the pheromones clogging the air, the small changes in Garak’s pitch as he laid forth his masterful observation – and he  _ was _ masterful. Melekor’s eyes had turned quite soft and thin with appreciation, gazing like a restful cat. One of his fourths was outraged at the concept that  _ someone _ in Cardassian space might have known about his existence all along, but that outrage was softened by the other three.

“If it seems foolish, it’s likely not correct,” he murmured as if he were trying to seduce Garak, subtly moving closer, so he could smell his breath better, determine if there was something in it. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with Cardassia,” a disturbing thought crossed his mind. “Perhaps I’m not her only child, after all,” thoughtfully, as to try and grasp his thoughts better, he laid a hand against Garak’s chest, running it up towards his neck. “Garak,” he mumbled as he let his fingertips grace those sensitive neckscales, “are you aware that you have empathic abilities?”

“Come on, dear, I have no such abilities,” he denied in a whisper, shivering at the touch.  He’d meant to sound more amused, but the sound came out intrigued and a bit hoarse. “What are you imagining?”

“Perhaps you simply call it something else,” the younger one suggested as to gently introduce the idea to him, still trailing Garak’s neck with gentle fingers, both because he had such a need to touch him, and because he knew that he might soften his defenses some, were he to continue – it was a thin line to balance on, if Melekor were to push too hard, Garak might think he was manipulating him and withdraw. And he didn’t want that. “Instinct? Intuition? Social reflexes? Natural charisma?” he took a deep breath of those pheromones, filling himself with them and holding them in his chest, “Perhaps people have been known to fear you, as if they thought you could somehow see through them, get into their minds. Those are things all people fear, and why on some worlds, empaths are prosecuted as a potential threat.” He noticed the other’s diverted eyes, and decided to close the distance, enough that it might have been a kiss, but not enough for an actual touch – Garak would have to be the one to take that step. Those were  _ his _ quarters, after all, and Melekor didn’t want to lay claim on something Garak had not consented to. Unknowingly, the engineer was reaching dangerous topics that not even Garak – or especially not Garak – wished to mention. The past of Cardassia belonged to the grave, and the tailor preferred for the both of them to stay out of it.

“No,” he whispered, exhaling tension. “I am a simple tailor… How queer that you would suspect me to possess the talents you say… It does sound like something quite advantaging. A pity I am devoid of it, then…” he stepped back and held Melekor’s wrists, taking his hands off him.

“On the contrary,” Melekor told him quite sincerely, “to manage to make a living as a tailor on a station that your kind built to enslave the people currently dominating it – I am not sure you  _ could _ do that without extensive charisma,” he smiled a bit sweetly as he let himself be dragged, “I am not sure what else you thought I was insinuating, but I assure you, I meant no harm.”

“Now that will be quite enough,” Garak let go off him to take another step back.

“I’m sorry,” Melekor apologized sheepishly. As he watched Garak in silence, he finally came to a realization that should have been more glaring. “You’re a  _ persona non grata _ , aren’t you?” he asked rather carefully, “If I were to associate myself with you...” he sat, wondering what to do with those feelings and sensations growing inside of him. It all felt so unfair. He wished that he could be romantic and say that he didn’t care about his reputation, but as a matter of fact, he did. Not for his own sake, but for his father’s sake. It had been one of the reasons Timun’s feelings put him off so much – he couldn’t afford a Vulcan sweetheart. It was already bad enough that he was a half-breed; forming a couple with someone who wasn’t even Cardassian, or someone who was, but was pariah, that would make it  _ worse _ .

“I’ll just say that those  _ charismatic instincts _ , as we shall call them, are a double-edged blade,” Garak sighed and answered. “You didn’t answer my earlier question, Melekor… If someone you pledged to required of you actions that would lead to doom people to suffering, pain and death for the greater good of more, would you be capable of doing your duty? Have you been conditioned for this too?”

“Oh but, Garak, it was  _ never _ about the greater good!” Melekor smiled a little, then let out a joyless laughter. The anxiety Garak’s question carried with it was almost soothing in comparison to the unhappiness it replaced. “Perhaps, if it had been, if there had been a  _ purpose _ , I would – but you see, there is no direction to anything I’ve been taught,” a certain degree of distress rose in his voice and on his face. “In his cellar, she made me hurt them, made me understand how much I  _ loved _ feeling their pain, their agony, their tears – but there was never any direction to it. No meaning. No purpose –  _ I _ have no purpose!” tears had started to stream down his face, and for some reason his hand hurt; it was only once he realized he’d slammed his glass hard enough to shatter it and cut himself that he understood where the pain came from. His eyes widened in shock and Garak had to stop him from trying to gather the Kanar that had leaked with his bare hands, with the risk of cutting himself further on the shards.

“I’m so sorry!” he stared between his host and the dark blood blending in the blue alcohol.

“It’s alright,” Garak got some towels from the replicator, then a dermal regenerator from the bathroom to tend to his guest’s hand, all while questioning what he’d just heard. Did Tain know of this? Or anyone else Ywanna was in contact with, for that matter? Either way, he forced calm back into himself to better soothe the other. “It’s alright…” he repeated, “All this cannot be for nothing. We’ll set a purpose, a meaning to this absurdity.  _ You’ll _ set a purpose.”

“I killed three people,” Melekor watched through blurry eyes as Garak healed his hand. He wished other parts of him could be healed, too, but knew that some things were a little bit harder to change than others. “I killed them because I lost myself to the bliss of it. I tortured  _ three _ men to death, and she let me,” he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, “That’s when I decided that I wouldn’t do it again. We went back to Trill. And then to Vulcan, where I got my phelenaxinide – my mother’s ultimate failure. So now you know,” he cleared his throat, “why I’m a monster. I’m terrified of myself.”

“We all have a monster inside, we all have something that scares us. Pulsions, fantasies, thoughts, desires, opinions, memories… That does not mean we cannot learn to live with the beast. Fear feeds it. It’s no wonder you are terrified, but I promise you, you are not alone to be like this, and you are not alone with this,” Garak caressed his face in an almost brotherly way, quite tender and sympathetic. “You’re going to need to accept a little help from others, and I know just how unpleasant and scary it is.”

“No one can help me,” Melekor had to answer, as bitter as it was. “Whenever I let people get close to me, I also let them get close to her. After a time, she either takes over the friendship, or chases them away, one way or another – Maniel...” he swallowed, “Maniel Dalkar. She liked him at first, approved of him – he was clever, sharper than the others, we were drawn to each other – not sexually, mind – just drawn. I think she made him disappear,” he looked at Garak again, “He was my dearest friend. The only person I’ve ever felt like he understood me. Gone. I guess she saw him as competition. I never got over it. But you see? That’s what happens when I try – and Timun Lykes... she wanted him to be my martial arts teacher  _ and _ my doctor. When he... made fun of her... she turned me against him. I don’t think she’ll kill him, or at least I didn’t think so then; it seemed so silly – but I’m not sure anymore. I don’t know her.”

“It’s hard to know our own parents sometimes…” Garak nodded as he finished healing the cuts. “Come on, get up,” he caught his hand and helped him onto his feet. “She’s losing control. That she had you turn against Lykes means she’s starting to have to rely on you. She’s not in the best of positions. Time has passed since she left Cardassia, and the allies of yesterday may be the enemies of today. People change,” he went to dissolve the towels and glass shards, then the empty tea cups.

Melekor hadn’t thought about it like that, rather assuming that the fact she could control him was the proof of her power. As he watched Garak getting rid of the messy towels sullied with black and blue, he couldn’t help but think of his own messy self. His ambiguity, his confusion. The dress he’d been wearing and how he hadn’t been able to remove the makeup on his own – Garak had had to do it for him, because Melekor couldn’t bring himself to do it, as if doing so would have killed the only part of himself he wished to keep and protect. The engineer cringed a little at the memory, and especially the words he’d shared after, maybe imbued with Kanar but mostly with honest sincerity. One Garak hadn’t welcomed, of course. There was no surprise in this.

“This morning,” he said dryly, “she went to my quarters. At five hundred hours or so, I believe… I was half-asleep, but somehow she thought it was the best moment for a telepathic spar.” They moved to the couch. Melekor had Garak’s undivided attention and it made him almost uncomfortable.

“For hours we stayed like this, sitting on the floor, staring at each other. She tried to get into my mind, I tried to resist,” he explained. “I was starting to get really hungry when the door chimed. I allowed it to open and her attention faltered when this… Bolian almost came in, looking at us, wondering what he’d just walked in on. Wrong door,” Melekor gestured. “Thankfully, my mother decided to leave it at that, probably because she’d lost against me. Still, her hair was only stuck with sweat. My nose was bleeding,” he had to be a little disappointed with the weakness of his body. When he looked at Garak, he noticed how concerned the tailor looked. “It wasn’t a strong bleeding.”

“She made you bleed with her  _ mind? _ ”

“You understand why I was concerned for your doctor…” – Garak sighed and relaxed in the backrest, arms crossed.

“And I thought my father’s love was tough…” He shook his head. “We’ll just have to keep a low profile until she leaves, I guess.”

Melekor nodded. He hesitated to tell that he’d spent pretty much all of his day reading tech manuals in some forsaken corridor in order to avoid his mother. He wished he could stay and spend the night in Garak’s quarters instead, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to be there if his mother were to chime at the door looking for him – she  _ might _ do that, he knew. And he didn’t want to embarrass Garak with this when he’d done so much already.

“I should go,” he resolved and got up.

“Rest will do you good,” Garak got up as well.

“I’m sorry I came by at this late hour and-”

“Let’s not worry about that,” the tailor walked him to the door. “You take care of yourself, I’ll set the appointment with the doctor,” he grinned. Melekor smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, wait,” Garak hurried to a closet in which he grabbed a canvas bag from his shop, handing it to the other. Melekor looked inside, instantly recognizing the bony white cloth inside and almost tried to refuse the gift in polite embarrassment. “Keep it but hide it, it’s your secret,” the tailor insisted and ushered him out.

Once alone again, Garak rested against the cold door, thinking of all that had happened. He was tired, but knew too well he wasn’t going to sleep so easily, and finally opted to get out. His feet knew the way to his destination, and breaking in was as easy as usual. Silent like a shadow, he walked through the dark living room and slipped into the doctor’s bedroom without more of a sound than the hiss of the door. Julian slept like a baby on his bed, deep into slumber and relaxed. Garak observed him for a while, standing by the side of his bed, a small smile on his lips. At last, he sat on a chair, and, feeling more at peace as he veiled his lover, he could finally let himself succumb to exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving a comment if you like it :)


	19. Day 16 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: gender/body fluidity topics

##  Day 16

Julian had a particularly amazing dream that night, involving lots of candy canes and bushes made from spun sugar. Understanding that it was a dream, he’d allowed himself a moment of lucid dreaming, eating as much as possibly while he still could – after all, why not indulge when the opportunity presented itself? The shallows of sleep were a thin ice to thread on. Too vivid control, and the bubble would burst and Julian would awake to a world made of regular materials. Too much stillness, and he risked falling into the next level of REM sleep, which similarly meant that there wouldn’t be much indulgence to be had.

Eventually though, he woke himself up (his tongue had started to hurt from all the mint) and opened his eyes to the dark bedroom, sighing with delight as he got up, gathered a set of clothes from the wardrobe, and turned around.

He’d jolted a little at the sight of Garak, who was sleeping on a chair – ouch, that wasn’t good, especially not for his poor spine. What was he doing there anyway? Julian didn’t bother to feel surprised however. Instead, knowing full well that Cardassian hearing was not as good as Human’s, he snuck out of the room, took a sonic shower, slipped into his clothes and ordered enough scones with butter and redleaf tea for the both of them, letting the scent travel through the open door to, hopefully, wake him up. Just a little later indeed, Garak jolted awake. He blinked and rubbed his eyes quickly to clear his sight, noticing that Julian was no longer in bed. The Cardassian appreciated not to have been fussed at nor thrown out, and was thus smiling a bit as he got up, following the scent that led him to the living room, where Julian was already dressed and tidy. This fine sight made the tailor more conscious of his own feeling of uncleanliness. He eyed at the breakfast, then back at Julian again.

“Would you mind if I take a shower first? It shall be quick,” he made a cute face to support his request.

“How courteous of you to ask,” Julian said with a mixture of sarcasm and endearment, setting the tray on the table. But then he realized that the Edosian orchid he’d stolen from Tain’s backyard was in the bathroom and he hesitated. Give it to Garak to destroy his own surprises, “I  _ was _ planning on giving it to you this afternoon, but since you’re acting like a small child who can’t help but to open his birthday gifts prematurely,  _ be my guest, _ ” he gesticulated a little and took a seat, not waiting for Garak as he put butter on a scone and started munching it. The tailor gave him an interested look, curiosity lifting his eyeridges, and went to the bathroom. The plant throning on the counter cut his breath as he understood quickly where it came from exactly. Stumbling backward a bit, he peered through the door.

“ _ Thief! _ ” he hissed, trying to squint but blushing as a smile tried to devour his entire face. “Stealing feelings from my heart, flowers from my home, you are unredeemable!” That said, he disappeared in the bathroom again and hurried to shower himself, tidy his hair and put clothes back on to be a minimum presentable, and came back with the pot, which he sat on the table.

“Hello, Julian, how nice to see you!” he greeted his lover with a bright smile and eyes that sparkled with fresh bubbles – and he couldn’t help but think being this happy should be forbidden.“Redleaf tea and scones,” he noticed with enthusiasm, “No jam?”

“Oh, I forgot it,” Julian got up, ordering some moba jam from the replicator and returning with a small glass bottle, “Here, try,” he shuffled it towards Garak as he sat down, “on the scones, not in the tea,” he made sure to be clarify. He had a moment of fleeting doubt in which he wonder if the other knew he always had his scones with moba jam and redleaf tea. And how much of a creepy stalker would he be if he knew?

At least, Garak seemed to enjoy the food, and himself too, which was good. For all the arrogance he was capable of, Julian didn’t believe that the happiness Elim seemed to draw from their relationship was enough to erase the misery that had nearly driven him to suicide. The moment they shared was sweet, almost innocent, although the doctor had an inkling that Garak had something behind his mind. Before Julian could inquire, the other cut him short with another question.

“So, did you sleep well?” the tailor asked with a grin. “You seemed so serene in your bed…” he let the peaceful image engulf him again. “What a lovely sight it was…” Julian gave Garak a look of disapproval as he spread some jam on his next scones.

“I did, yes. Unlike you,” he scolded, “That  _ can’t  _ have been comfortable. Next time you decide to come admire me sleep, perhaps you should practice some self-preservation and lay on the bed instead,” he bit his scone, then changed his mind and un-bit it. Impatience and curiosity had won him over, “You didn’t come here  _ just _ to look at me sleep, did you?”

“Actually, I did,” Elim admitted. “I couldn’t sleep and I came to realize that seeing you when you sleep is greatly soothing and the best way to alleviate my stress enough to ease into sleep as well.”

“So you broke a lot of regulations just to come stare at me sleep –  _ which _ is also a criminal offense, in case you didn’t already know,” Julian gave him a look that distinctly told he didn’t believe what he said, but would humour him nonetheless. He munched some breakfast but couldn’t help but to smile a little. Okay, so either Elim or Garak  _ were _ a stalker, a stalker with Cardassian security codes no less. Why, it would be  _ dangerous _ to oppose him, wouldn’t it?

“Is it so unbelievable?” Elim laughed, noting that they were reaching this stage when the truth sounded more like lies. “Well, I suppose I had reasons to be concerned, and you are dying to know them, uhm?” he spoke calmly, indulging in more scone, more butter and more moba jam before continuing. “You’re going to laugh,” he chuckled as if he found what he was to say to be actually funny, “I might have almost persuaded Mister Kel to undergo further medical investigation,” he told as if it was some sort of joke. Julian had lowered his fork to the point where it was nearly on the table, and he most  _ certainly  _ wasn’t laughing.

“The issue,” the Cardassian continued quickly, “is that his mother must in no way know about it, and this means she shouldn’t be able to fish information in that fascinating database that your head constitutes. And same goes for all your employees. So how can we solve this, hm? Because the stakes, my dear Julian, are that if my suspicions are correct, Ywanna tried to make her child into a son, perhaps because, were Melekor to possess fertile female organs and went to Cardassia, he would be assigned to female sex and expected to enjoin and breed within the next years,  _ and _ would difficulty be allowed to leave the Union again ever after,” the tailor explained.

“I showed you that list in strict confidence,” Julian scolded him while simultaneously scolding himself. What had possessed him to trust Elim Garak who had a talent for  _ obfuscation? _ He was disappointed, and he felt betrayed, and he wasn’t happy, and the story he heard made him even less happy and more enraged.

While it  _ was _ true that he  _ had _ considered to ask Garak to help him talk to his half-Cardassian patient, this was simply unacceptable. Julian sighed and leaned an elbow on the table, finally lifting his scone again, dipping it in the moba jam jar like a barbarian, because he knew Garak would likely be disgusted and a little bit offended by the gesture.

“What did I expect?” he asked himself, finally softening. Wasn’t this so very Cardassian though? Garak had told him, hadn’t he, that Cardassians were expected to solve their given task using all necessary tools? Julian had given Garak a task, and Garak had been graceful enough to help him, albeit in the only way Cardassians knew: in secrecy and the morally grey. Rules were only broken if such was found out, weren’t they?

“I’m not angry,” he resolved, even though he felt stiff and a bit weary, “but really,  _ Garak _ , we’re not in Cardassia. Things don’t get done here like they do there; our ways are  _ different _ ,” then he looked up at the tailor, and saw Elim, and he couldn’t really hold onto his grudge anymore. “I’ll have all necessary medical equipment assembled in your quarters. Then I’ll beam myself there. From the outside, it would seem like Mister Kel is just visiting his friend. Meanwhile, I’ll arrange false shuttle records to make it seem like I’m on a trip to Bajor. And I will have you know when I’m ready.”

“I thought we might rather do this while Miss Kel is away – I learned from a reliable source that she has a trial to attend on Trill in two days, which means she should depart tomorrow at the latest if she wishes to be there on time,” Garak told.

“How is Melekor Kel feeling about those suspicions concerning his sex? Did he exhibit any… concerning behavior?” Julian tried to figure without giving away more information about his patient.

“He is confused, understandably so,” Garak answered, observing the other with attention. “You’re worried he’d do something stupid? I don’t think he would before he at least gets to see Cardassia and his father,” he opted out mentioning how he’d emotionally cornered the young man.

“I’d rather follow up as I said,” Julian decided not to take chances. “And I’ll have you know that I’ve perfected my mind defense technique. I’m really rather talented at it, actually. Who would’ve guessed?”

“You never cease to amaze me, truly. I yet have to find the limits of your capabilities and talents,” the tailor flattered him with sincerity. “I know I’ve upset you,” he reckoned, “but my instinct has proven me right again.” He looked at the orchid almost as if Enabran himself sat on the table – which would have been extremely undignified, and just as ridiculous as the way his name had ended up showing in the whole affair. “Odo isn’t the only one to suspect me to belong to the Order, but he would have a lot more to worry about if he’d heard what I heard yesterday night,” he set his eyes back on Julian. “I don’t suppose Ywanna would want to take such risks as to threaten a Starfleet officer, but that’s only if she has any plans of ever spending the rest of her life in the Federation… which I doubt, considering she seems mostly interested in controlling each and every aspect of her son’s life. She has plans for him, and although I don’t know what they are exactly, they are nothing as candid as she gives to see. Her absence of direct affiliation with Cardassia makes her a most convenient tool, were she to ever be incriminated for the illegal actions she’s taken to further her agenda.” Julian just stirred his tea in silence for a moment.

“You know,” he started again, “when Timun Lykes came to see me before he left the station. He seemed convinced Ywanna would try to have him killed...” he brought up again, lifted his cup and shook his head, “but what you are implying is a lot bigger than  _ just _ that. You really think she’d do that to her own child? She does seem to care for him a great deal,” he blew his tea, “she strikes me as overprotective. A typical Betazoid in that regard – I’ve heard a great deal about how Betazoid mothers can be very overbearing to do with when you’re only half-Betazoid and have different social needs,” he licked his lips and sipped the tea, shaking his head. “Admittedly, she refused to give a good answer as to  _ why _ all that testosterone is in there. I think she knows – I would’ve thought he knew, too. This is really rather disturbing.”

“It’s not what’s most disturbing, doctor,” Elim stirred his own tea and thoughtfully perfected the spreading of more butter and jam on yet another scone. “He was conditioned,” he gestured with his knife. “If she doesn’t want him to know something, then why should he want to know, hm? She does what’s best for him, no matter he likes it or not. But she made the most terrible mistake that could be done: she didn’t trust him. She didn’t explain why they were doing all this, she denied him to know what was his own purpose ...and deprived of any freedom nor control over his own life, he’s gone from self-harming to suicidal,” he explained, and he could quite relate too. “A pity, because he  _ does _ have unique talents. But she’s reached this point when an excess of control will either break the person irremediably, or break the binding. His loyalty to her is starting to falter, and you certainly know how this can be a prequel to passionate murder and suicide. What I wonder is how many people exactly she’d vengefully drag in her own fall?”

“Garak, you always had a flair for the dramatic,” Julian observed with his mouth half-full of scones.

“I have a flair for the danger in the shadows.  _ You _ have a love for the dramatic.” The doctor rolled his eyes at the correction.

“But are you suggesting that she’d kill him rather than lose him if he turned his back on her?” Such things weren’t unheard of, and it made it all a lot more complicated. “If that is the case, I’m afraid I will  _ have _ to involve station security, and they  _ won’t _ be happy with your involvement. Or mine, for that matter,” he added as a hindsight. “The question is which authorities they’ll have to contact, Trillian or Cardassian. Or Betazoid... I mean, if Ywanna is guilty of crimes, I’m sure the Betazed council would opt to have her exiled.”

“I’d rather they imprisoned her,” the Cardassian snorted, “What help would it be to exile her when she’s already here? We, Cardassians, at least have the decency not to throw our criminals for other worlds to deal with,” he grinned – Julian gave him bit of a look. “But listen, Doctor,” Garak continued, “this is a game of shadows, lies and deceit, and you’re not going to win it with reports and trials. She doesn’t play in that court. Her position is dangerous, both for her and for others.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean what I said, which is that my way is the way this time, Doctor,” Garak replied as obscurely as Julian had come to expect. Still, therein the words laid clues.

“So she’s some kind of spy or double agent or…” he made guesses, waving his hands. Then put them on the table a bit more firmly than he intended. “We don’t have time to play guess, Garak! I have a patient to care for!”

“Then  _ my _ guess is that she might have had that Vulcan doctor assassinated and that I’d rather you don’t end up the same way. She’s in a position of both great power and great vulnerability. If she makes an error, she might lose protection, she may even be assassinated. But if she doesn’t…” he sighed and looked at the orchid again, then back at his scones, then back at Julian.  He smiled, observing him as to say “ _ Two years ago, you wouldn’t have stood a chance _ .”

“I see,” Julian finally got up and started to take the dishes back to the replicator; a task in which Garak, or maybe Elim assisted him with. He had to admit that it was quite endearing, although almost disturbing.

“Elim…” he looked at him carrying the orchid as they were about to walk at the door, “You Cardassians, you… I mean,” he gestured at the other and at everything, “Sometimes it feels like there’s no in-between,” he finally chose to say. “The love you have for the State and your family is unconditional and passionate, your vision of justice has people be either innocent or guilty no matter it’s true or not, your society is divided in two gender roles…” he thinned his eyes.

“And what would be problematic about that? We don’t lose time discussing such things like humans do because it’s unnecessary. When we  _ know _ that something is right, we  _ embrace _ it and there is no questioning of those feelings. I suppose we just have a quicker brain,” Elim answered teasingly.

“How good for you,” Julian gave him a scolding look. “Now, I really have to get to my infirmary, prepare for my trip to Bajor. I’ll be ready to go when you are,” he winked smugly, “just let me know when, and I’ll be prepared within the hour.”

“Just give me the time to open my shop, realize my newly arrived stock of Tholian silk was eaten up by Morn’s voles and go cry myself to sleep in dismay,” the Cardassian smirked, then caught the doctor by the arm and spinned around him to stand in his way. “But first, Julian,” he held his face, enjoying the warm feeling of his skin, “I must wish you a safe trip to Bajor…” he whispered against his lips. Julian softened a little and folded his arms around Elim’s shoulders, indulging in the moment and in his lips. A sweet, chaste kiss that turned into a silent embrace as he laid his forehead against Elim’s. The feeling of his spoon was always softer than he’d thought it would be.

“I’ll have a great time distributing vaccines, I assure you,” he told him before he disentangled himself, held his hand for a moment longer and then let both himself and the tailor go.

##  * * *

Melekor hadn’t expected to see Garak again so soon but let him in. “Things got a little more rushed than expected,” the tailor told him. “I’ll have you in my quarters in one hour,” he muttered to him, “and you are  _ not _ refusing. I’ll have you beamed there if I must.”

“What do you mean you’ll  _ have me? _ ” Melekor chuckled at the sexual innuendo. He knew full well that this wasn’t what Garak had meant to say, but he wasn’t in the greatest of moods either. “I thought you already established you don’t  _ want _ to have me,” he added, “Now, if you’ve decided to change your mind, I’m sorry to say it’s a bit too late. I’m terribly embarrassed about the whole thing, if I should be totally honest. It would be comfortable to blame the Kanar, but I’m not sure a liquid could take all the blame for the things I did and said that other night.” Garak rolled up his eyes and had him sit on the couch.

“If you’re uncomfortable with the topic, that’s perfectly fine. We can simply stop talking about it right now, and I don’t blame you more than the Kanar,” he dropped himself to sit by Melekor’s side. “The only thing I’m uncomfortable with is to leave you here when your mother might come back any time for another ‘ _ spar _ ’ or whatever you’d rather call this torture. You look horrible,” he cared to inform him with concern. “I’ll let you have a shower first, and get in fresher clothes, but then I want you to come to my quarters and get yourself some rest. Have you even slept tonight?” he looked at the young man’s bloodshot eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I tried to listen to music, got a visit from security because my neighbours apparently couldn’t sleep either by my fault, then tried to drink myself to sleep, which apparently doesn’t work. A very bad idea, in retrospect,” he winced. “I have a headache, and I’m a bit nauseated. If you’ll just give me enough time to recover my wits, I’ll come with you.” Garak gave him a sententious look.

“This would be wise, because this isn’t an offer I’ll make twice,” he said grimly. “Don’t take too long,” he got up and went to lean against the wall, next to the entrance door, arms folded together. “I’ll wait five minutes.” Melekor gulped and obeyed. The tailor sighed and relaxed for a moment, thinking.

“Computer…” he thinned his eyes, “Play last played music track at a reasonable volume for Cardassian hearing,” he requested. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Melekor would listen to lull himself into sleep, but it certainly wasn’t this. Wild electronic sounds tore the air with a smashing bassline. Then came the voice, suave like a hot whisper, penetrating and entrancing, but spilling blasphemous words of an increasingly vulgar nature.

 

_ “It’s a bargain for the future, _

_ They’re bragging for tomorrow, _

_ It’s the top they nurture, _

_ While we starve on bottom row, _

 

_ “Feed my brain, master, _

_ Feed my brain, I beg, _

_ You look down at me and say, _

_ Eat if you’re hungry, _

_ Child you can always swallow my scum, _

_ (I always knew you were a dick) _

 

_ “It’s a bargain for the future, _

_ They’re bragging for tomorrow, _

_ It’s the top they nurture, _

_ While we starve on bottom row, _

 

_ “I’d rather grow my seeds, _

_ Than suck it from your dick, _

_ I look down on you and say, _

_ Fap if you’re horny, _

_ I’m not the child who’ll swallow your scum, _

_ (I always knew you were a cunt)” _

 

Garak just stared at Melekor when he came out of the bathroom, looking vaguely better than before as five minutes clearly weren’t enough to fix the entire mess.

“This is  _ barbaric! _ ” he blinked in confusion. The other closed his eyes, clearly wanting to die a bit for the time being, so the tailor added, “I mean, that’s a… peculiar choice of lullaby, and probably not the sort of music you should bring along to Cardassia. It would  _ not _ be welcome.”

“I would imagine so…” the engineer nodded. “...Shall we go?” Garak nodded in return.

“I... suppose so.”

##  * * *

While Julian set to get medical devices beamed to Garak’s quarters, the tailor allowed Melekor to use his bathroom to prepare himself for the medical exploration. In the shower, the young man touched himself as if it was the last time, knowing somehow that whatever happened, his vision and experience of himself would be forever changed. He took long. Long enough that he was certain Garak would start wondering if he’d started investigating the inside of the wall panels, but he couldn’t help but to touch himself – not sexually, but as a mean to try and come to terms with what his body really was like. In the end, he stood in front of the mirror, and looked at his complex and multifaceted self reflected so plainly in the smooth surface. Scales, hips, fingers, lips... If there was something he was grateful for, it was that his physique was mostly Cardassian. He wasn’t sure what he’d feel like, if he’d been more Betazoid. Awful, probably.

Finally, he had the audacity of picking one of Garak’s shower gowns – smooth, crimson red and pleasant of scent – and went into the other room.

“I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your-” he stopped and stared at the room, which was entirely different by now. Had he really exited and re-entered the same place?

“I would mind more to see you in those infirmary robes again rather than in such a fine gown,” Garak chimed, adjusting the position of a monitor and navigating between an examination table and more devices to get closer to his guest. “Don’t worry, the door is locked,” he told, as if that that could make the whole situation any less concerning. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Melekor nodded subtly and went to sit on the examination table, wiggling his toes a little and watching them. He felt incredibly small and vulnerable. “Do you know how long it will take?” Just in that moment, Doctor Julian Bashir solidified near the window.

“Mister Kel, Mister Garak,” he nodded to both of them and set the case of vaccines on a nearby furniture, “Are you ready to proceed?” – Melekor looked at him like he’d seen a ghost – “Depending on what I find, this won’t take too long,” the doctor reassured him, and went over to pick his tools from the table on which Garak had put them, wiring up the scanner to one of the screens.

“I suppose the tea will wait a bit then,” Garak figured – Melekor pouted in slight disappointment. “May I be of any assistance, Doctor?”

“Yes,” Julian answered as he calibrated the medical tricorder, “ _ after _ I’ve recorded the readings. For now, however, give us some privacy, and go to your bedroom, shoo,” he waved a hand at the Cardassian, taking a certain degree of sadistic pain in making him go away. Garak somewhat failed to hide his disgruntlement.

“I know it no longer looks like it, but this is my bedroom,” he pointed at a corner. “But I suppose I could tidy up in the bathroom and read something,” he took a PADD and replicated an eyepiece similar to the one he’d gifted to Melekor the night before. That done, he locked himself in the bathroom and opened a panel to connect his PADD to the computer and explore the medical database to review the medical information generously granted by Enabran. It was good that he still had treptacederine to keep on medicating himself against headaches, lest what he was reading through surely would have revived the pain.

 

In the living room, Julian had Melekor lay comfortably on the table, while he went over him with the medical tricorder. As he suspected, things weren’t all as they should, and he had to take a scan as well, which took a while longer. Meanwhile, he asked questions, most of them ones that Garak had already beaten him to – Melekor didn’t know why he was pumping himself full of testosterone on a daily basis, didn’t know what most of the components in his drug did, didn’t know that a part of his brain was literally damaged every time he injected himself. And then they reached the sensitive topic, and Julian had him sit on the bed while he looked over the results.

“If you feel comfortable with Garak’s help, you can go get him for me, as I have no actual data on Cardassian physiology to compare to.” Julian had his suspicions however – there were heavy scar tissues that would seem to indicate that at some point, there had been a vaginal opening. The penis, for what it was worth, seemed normal, which meant that Melekor was likely intersexed. Yet, Julian had to wonder whether Cardassians in fact didn’t have more than two sexes; looking at this, the condition that Melekor must have been in initially, was too  _ perfect _ to be simply intersexism. He had what appeared to be a perfect womb, seemingly fertile and highly durable, which in combination with his very normal male member, made him something of an unusual specimen. He didn’t have testes, but the penis was still connected to something that could be described as testes, except they produced absolutely no sperm, only liquid, possibly to make sex more pleasurable. From a biological standpoint, such a design wasn’t unlikely at all.

The big issue were the scar tissues, really; Julian wasn’t sure how to tell Melekor that he had been medically altered, probably as an infant. It was outrageous, really. Back on Ancient Earth, similar practices had taken place against intersexed individuals, and science  _ had  _ shown that those individuals were more prone to suicide than others. Julian never failed to get upset about it, because he could relate, albeit in different ways.

When Melekor opened the bathroom’s door, he found Garak clearly doing something a tailor had no business doing with the inside of the walls, and instantly regretted not to have knocked before entering – Garak on his behalf, regretted not to have locked the door.

“The doctor said you can help now,” Melekor told him, pretending he hadn’t noticed the open panel and the wires coming out. Then he hurried back to the bed, where he sat again, dangling his feet and watching on the floor, cross-legged, while he went over the different readings on his screens.

“How may I help?” asked Garak as he joined the others back.

“Ah, please sit!” Julian cooed with delight and enthusiasm, patting the couch, “and have a look at these,” he slid the scan and the medical readings towards him. “Tell me what you make of it.” As Garak came over, so did Melekor, annoyingly peeking over their shoulders – not that Julian could find it within him to shoo him off; these were  _ his _ physical values, after all.

“Mister Kel, you should go get yourself some tea, this could take a while, “ he patted his shoulder, and Melekor, catching the hint, got up and replicated himself something to drink, along with a sinfully sweet slice of sugar-iced bread. There he decided to just remain there and eat it while the other two discussed in hushed voices.

Sat close to Julian, Garak observed the results, compared with what he had on his PADD, and tried to comment what he saw. “So he doesn’t have any source of natural testosterone, and needed synthesis hormones to express a male puberty and to prevent him from starting to develop secondary female characteristics,” he concluded. “If he stops the testosterone, he’s likely to develop those female characteristics, right? I’m not sure the hips would change at his age, but I guess breasts aren’t unlikely? And he should start menstruating too, except there is no way to get it out at the moment, which could certainly be a serious issue…” he murmured. “What sort of butcher does this to a child…? He must have been extremely young…” This was a crime of a yet higher offense. Not only had Ywanna stolen a child, she’d mutilated it, mutilated her child’s femalehood. Garak wasn’t sure anymore how Rokat could be announced the news without choking to his death. The tailor himself felt a dark anger begging him to go find Ywanna and execute her for her crimes. But he was only a tailor, not an Archon, and the sentence was not for him to pass.

“Judging off of these readings, I’d say he was an infant, possibly newborn,” Julian clarified to Garak, pretty sure that would horrify him further. “Long, long ago, in Ancient Earth history, I know there was a period when medicine had progressed enough to perform surgery on infants. Intersexed babies were often operated on to appear more as the sex they dominantly displayed. And no, it was not a good technique,” he added before Garak could come with some Cardassian holier-than-thou answer, “Many of those children grew up to later commit suicide or otherwise end up in terrible psychological suffering upon learning how their bodies had been mutilated without their consent, not to mention gender dysphoria. That’s why the practice was eventually banned, in favour of better sexual education, a fluider understanding of gender, bodies and awareness for all – now,” he cleared his throat, “maybe she did it for similar reasons? To help him fit into the Cardassian binary norm?”

“We  _ have _ a binary gender norm on Cardassia, true,” Garak winced, “but that doesn’t mean we would ever do this to a child!” he slammed the PADD on his lap, “Especially not when they aren’t even able to have a say in what happens to them. We… integrate those children, and those adults as they grow up, no matter what they choose to be,” he tried to keep vague.

“You’re suggesting that Cardassians have more than two sexes?” Julian allowed himself to be a little smug over his guess.

“Now  _ that _ is pure fantasy, Doctor,” Garak mocked him. In truth, he didn’t even know. Such topics were for scientists to discuss. “Instead of going on about such irrelevant ideas, you should ask him what he wants for his body… And explain the options.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you to tell me how to be a doctor, Garak,” Julian snorted with a mixture of something sweet and sour, before he got up, sat on the medical table and patted beside him, “You can come now, we’re done.”

Melekor, who had about a fourth left of his bread, shoved it in his mouth and hurried over as if he could possibly arrive too late. When he made to ask, he realized he’d stuffed his mouth full, and had to swallow it all dry, which in turn caused a series of hiccups that left his throat a little bit sore.

“What did you find?” he asked after the hiccups had finally ended.

“It would appear that you are a perfectly healthy intersexed person,” Julian began to explain as gently as he could, “That is why you have been taking testosterone – you have a fully functional womb and, I believe you used to have some manner of a vulva too, in addition to your penis.” Melekor didn’t seem to react much, other than for the fact that he was no longer breathing.

“I was surgically altered?” he asked in disbelief.

“As a baby, I believe,” Julian told him, and made to continue, when the other got off of the bed rather hastily, “Wait!” he got up too, “I haven’t told you all of it yet.” Melekor stopped, halfway to the door, and Julian took a deep breath, looking a bit desperately at Garak (who was glad to have locked the entrance, as Melekor running out of his quarters wearing nothing more than the tailor’s  _ own _ gown wasn’t exactly something he wanted to see happening, and even less to be seen by anyone) – the tailor got up and went to replicate some handkerchiefs while Julian continued.

“We believe that if you stop taking your testosterone, you’ll develop female traits,” the doctor explained the stakes, “you may very well grow hips, breasts, and I tend to believe your scales might become a tad softer. But this wouldn’t be wise to do before your more intimate areas are restored. Considering my limited knowledge of Cardassian reproductive organs and your intentions to join the Union, I suppose you’d have to get a Cardassian doctor to do it for you, if it is what you want to do.” Melekor didn’t answer, and Julian didn’t want to pressure him. The situation was shocking enough as it was. “Another option would be to continue the testosterone, and even to get rid of your female organs. That’s something I could do.”

“No,” his voice was wet, and the pain in it was evident.

“No, you don’t want to remove the testosterone, or no, you don’t want to-” Julian interrupted himself as it was rather evident that Melekor had broken into tears, muffling himself with his hand. Julian opted to let Garak take care of it – Garak  _ was _ the Cardassian, after all. He was probably going to be a lot better at giving the right advice. The tailor came over to Melekor and gently dragged him to the couch.

“You’re not abnormal… and you’re certainly not a monster,” he murmured, discreetly passing him a tissue. “A lot of Cardassians are like you, except they weren’t surgically altered at such an age that they couldn’t take the decision themselves,” he brushed his hair. “You can still become pretty. You can become who you are meant to be… the choice is all yours. It’s your body,” he rubbed the young man’s knee, comfortingly. Or did he want to be a man? The question would probably have to stay on hold; Melekor was sobbing helplessly into his hand.

The half-Cardassian wasn’t even sure where to begin. What did this all mean? He wanted to know – what was he? Male or female? What was he expected to become now, a woman? A wife? A pregnant woman? An extremely bored woman tasked with raising children and performing menial work? He was an engineer. He belonged in an engine room, aboard a ship, travelling through space whilst making a difference! Yet, the more he thought like that, the more it hurt, like he was punching himself inwardly, repeatedly. Torturing a part of him that he couldn’t even understand yet. A part of him that  _ was _ him, inseparable, perhaps like the symbionts were to the Trill.

He had been born  _ both _ . Perhaps he was  _ both _ . Or neither. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible, and there was so little time left to get to know himself. Or whatever self it was. Him, her… something else.

“Why?” he asked as his thoughts turned around, “Why has she done this to me?” he couldn’t help but to think about the baby he must have been. Small, defenseless, and denied its own body. Robbed of years needed for self-insight. Cursed to feel lost and confused. Why?

“I don’t know…” Garak held him, arms wrapping around him, resting his chin in the black mane. “She must have wanted you to be a boy. Maybe she wanted you to be like your father,” he mused. “No, I- I can’t understand… I think Rokat would have welcomed any child, as probably would have anyone else…” he closed his eyes. He’d wanted to say all parents loved their children, but… Something was swelling in his throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand either, it doesn’t make any sense.” After a moment of sniffling and mopping his nose, Melekor managed to take a deeper breath.

“I’ll have to ask her; I need to know,” he managed to say in a small voice. Somewhere during his thoughts, Julian had sat down on his other side, and reached him another tissue with which he mopped his face gently.

“Are you sure that’s wise? She might not have any good answers for you…” Melekor smiled a little and straightened up.

“I don’t think there  _ are _ any good answers to this, Doctor,” he pointed out and blew his nose discreetly, “But I still have to know what she has to say for herself. At worst, she won’t answer at all.” He should be used to her silence by now.

“And how do you plan to explain how you figured this all out?” Garak asked softly.

“I’ll tell her Timun Lykes is the one who made the medical assessment, and that what happened to provoke her was something we staged as a reason for him to leave in time for me to tell her, without her going off on him,” he reasoned, inhaling deeply, “She wanted him to be my doctor, after all. Why not play along?” Bashir’s entire expression showed how much he disliked this idea.

“Don’t you think that’s a tad abusive?” he asked almost aggressively, “That man has already put himself in grave potential danger on your behalf – he  _ cares _ about you -”

“I didn’t  _ ask _ him to care about me,” Melekor shot back, getting defensive, “it’s  _ his _ prerogative that he does.” Julian snapped his jaws shut, temporarily at a loss for words. Cardassian self-preservation, he thought grimly to himself, this was the ugly reality of it.

“It’s not entirely a bad idea, ” Garak considered it and put his hand on Melekor’s lap, “But it might be worth it for you, to take your part of responsibility. Lykes could have seen certain things in the testosterone rates, but it would have required that you asked him to examine your medicine first, hm? From there,  _ you _ could have required he’d assisted you for further investigation… If you press too much on him, it might end up suspicious and delicate to handle. You need to add more confusion to the story. And do not hesitate to make lies bigger than you,” he suggested – Julian chose not to argue with that, preferring to start beaming out the equipments instead. Cardassian hearing was clearly too bad to receive anything he had to say  _ anyway _ .

“I guess you’re right,” Melekor admitted after considering Garak’s words for a while. “I could even overdo it, pretend I have feelings for him – which I  _ don’t _ ,” he made sure to make clear – Garak instantly concluded that Melekor must have feelings for Lykes after all, lest he wouldn’t have mentioned the idea, especially not to specify it  _ wasn’t true _ . The young man was a poor liar. “What will happen to my mother if this reaches Cardassian authorities?” Melekor finally dared to ask the much more relevant question.

“Your mother? Well, I expect she might be a lot less tempted to follow you on Cardassia, and unable to pull the strings she could still pull some hours ago,” Garak answered half-honestly. He was curious to know if the woman’s instinct of self-preservation would win over her controlling needs, but worried she might not stop so easily. Next to him, Melekor had rarely experienced such a split set of emotions. At one hand, logically speaking he knew it would be in his favour, in his father’s and brother’s favour. But his mother… he didn’t want her hurt. He couldn’t do that to her.

“If she came with me anyway, what would happen?” he had his suspicions that she would, and he had his suspicions as to what would happen to her if she did, “What she’s done, it could be considered very offensive, right? Could she be… be…”  _ dealt a death penalty _ , Garak guessed was what he wanted to ask without daring to as if it could turn into some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.

“It would take a lot of manoeuvring to condemn her to a non-lethal punishment, which the public opinion would not understand. A light sentence would reflect badly on your father and his family,” Garak explained calmly. “It would be wise of your mother to understand she needs to put an end to the harm she’s doing to you,” he added more darkly. “If she loves you, she must let you go.”

“If I tell her that, she’ll insist on coming along  _ just _ to make sure I won’t go. And if I go, she’ll come anyway, and from there, it won’t matter what I do, I’ll lose in the end – trust me, I know her. And I know myself. It’s not about love, it’s about responsibility.”

“I believe she  _ knew _ the risks when she took that decision.” Garak displayed a bit of embarrassment still, and cleared his voice. “I now wonder if your mother expected I would contact your father first, to double cross her, or if it is only unfortunate that the situation is now almost reaching the point of no-return… But if she used me, she must have grown quite some hatred for Rokat, to be so cruel as to let him know he has a child who wishes to meet him but now must choose between the mother he already knows and the father he always wanted to know. This sounds like the plot of an old-fashion Klingon opera, the sort in which everybody dies in the end over honor and responsibility,” he heaved a sigh.

“Then I have to tell her to stay behind for her own good, and if she can’t listen to reason, then… then it’s not my problem!” Logically speaking, it was easy. Emotionally, not so much, and Melekor had to brace himself a bit to continue. “If she comes with me, I will… consider it her choice by free will, even if I might never  _ feel _ that way about it. I just… don’t intend on dying,” he concluded, resolve settling in him.

“Well, that would be  _ sane _ ,” Garak approved. “You probably need some time to think things and options through. Alone time. No such thing as having your mother waking you up in the small hours of the morning to  _ spar _ mentally with you until your nose is bleeding,” he spoke the last sentence faster but very intelligibly, shifting his voice to a somewhat different pitch as well,  _ almost _ as to catch someone’s attention. In a second, Julian reappeared next to Melekor, tricorder in hand, like a genius summoned from an old lamp.

“That doesn’t sound good at all. May I?” he lifted the device a bit.

“If you must. I don’t believe there’s any real damage, though. It’s happened more times than I can count, and I’m reasonably fine despite of it.” Julian proceeded anyway, humming a little.

“Myeah, but I think you should report to the infirmary and have the nurses get a closer look on you. If you bleed from _telepathic_ _assault_ , it could mean injury to your nervous system, amongst other rather unpleasant things – what kind of mother _would do that_ to their own child?” he proceeded to ask, more as a rhetorical question. At any rate, Melekor didn’t answer, so Garak did.

“That’s at least not anything a Cardassian mother would do,” Garak said, “and for all I know about Betazoids, it doesn’t seem like anything a Betazoid mother would do  _ either _ .”

A bit of silence settled, and it was quickly turning awkward and unpleasantly heavy. Melekor had decided not to comment on Garak’s observation, simply because the tailor was right. Julian simply observed, as that was a conversation he did not feel comfortable diving into – between Ywanna being questionable at best, and Garak being a bit too generalistic, it was certainly a philosophical debate that had to wait for a more fitting moment.

“What I can see, is that there’s indeed a lot of scar tissue in this area… and there might be inside of your brain too, though it would be difficult to tell which of your mother and your medication did the most damage,” the doctor lowered the tricorder. “I do insist, you should visit the infirmary, there  _ could _ still be worse injuries – she must have used  _ significant force _ to get you to bleed through telepathic means. And considering what Mister Lykes’ attempted mindmeld did to you earlier…”

“Fine,” Melekor got to his feet, then looked down at his clothes – or Garak’s, rather.

“Good. Well, I have to go to Bajor for real,” Julian quipped and straightened up, went to get his medical suitcase and smiled at Garak, “Please make sure he doesn’t run into her again; I’m not sure  _ what _ would happen if she tried again, but I  _ am _ sure it wouldn’t be anything good.”

“Wait, what?” Garak blinked at the audacity, “Doctor, I’m a tailor, not a doctor or a babysit-”

“I know how much you appreciate my trust in you, Garak, so honor it for once,” Julian cut short and harshly. “Computer, one to beam to runabout pad C. Energize.”

The doctor turned into shimmering light and Garak stared at it with disbelief and slight offense. Since when was Julian Bashir so daring around him? “Wonderful,” he swore, realizing he’d brought that one on his own.

Melekor silently went to get back into his own clothes, cheeks and neck burning with humiliation. Once back into the living room, he headed for the entrance door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Garak asked.

“I think I’m capable of  _ babysitting _ myself,” Melekor snarked at him and slammed the button to open the door, finding it still locked. “Let me out before I rip out that panel and do it myself,” he turned to glare at the tailor.

“I don’t think you want to try this,” he replied calmly, although he didn’t feel as calm inside. “I… apologize for my words. I do understand how hurtful they came out.  _ Still _ , I cannot let you out. Now, I recommend you get away from that panel,” he made himself harsh and commanding though the emotions he exhaled were in complete contradiction. Instead, Melekor violently turned back to the panel, clawing to try dislodging it like his life depended on it. That the warning didn’t have the intended effect wasn’t entirely a surprise, but Garak could have done without the extra hassle. He didn’t exactly fancy things to get to the physical stage – it implied a loss of control.

In a few quick steps, the tailor stood behind the young man, caught his arm, twisted it and held it down the body while his other hand went to grab the other in the neck, pulling him away from the panel with the same momentum, and pressing him against the wall.

“Please, do not make things complicated when they can be simple, quiet and nice,” he said with sharp politeness. “I wish for nothing more but to keep civilized here.”

“I know,” Melekor answered finally, a dark and shameful fire running through his neck, “that’s why I want to leave, to keep things  _ civilized _ , as you put it. I find it difficult to be  _ civilized _ when you’re…  _ pursuing things _ that you don’t want.”

“I didn’t meant to-”

“Well, me neither! It’s just- it’s my body, it’s that stupid conditioning!”

“Alright,” Garak sighed and let go of him. “We both know things aren’t going to go well for you if you leave, and we both know as well that  _ pursuing things _ would also be a terrible idea. Would you accept to at least behave so we can discuss calmly how we shall handle this no-doubt embarrassing situation?” he asked more gently, as not to fuel the argument and subsequent arousal. The caring intent was real at least. “I do not wish to see you suffer, neither here nor out there.”

“I know, but I’m very unfamiliar with this aspect of me – the uh, the one that feels attraction,” Melekor confessed. “I’m not sure how to control it, other than perhaps leaving the vicinity of what’s causing it. Right now, that’s you, so… maybe you should just let me leave?”

“And how exactly do you intend to deal with this when you will be on Cardassia?” Garak pointed. “Will you keep on running away from your urges?” He turned him around and closed his eyes, just holding the young man’s shoulders. “Those feelings in you, they don’t have to be sexual. You can wrap them in silks of sympathy,” he opened kind blue eyes and offered a smile. “Come sit with me, Melekor,” he pulled him toward the couch. “Those physical reactions shouldn’t stand between us.  _ This _ is not all you feel, and not what I would ever judge you on. You are a lot more than your desire and your embarrassment. Come. I’ll stand the line.” They sat and he held his hands – they felt warm and nice.

“If I should be completely honest, I’m not sure how attractive I would be there,” he rubbed Garak’s fingers, delighting in the small contact they  _ could _ share without getting into the less acceptable. “I’m only  _ half _ -Cardassian,” he mentioned in case the other forgot, “I would imagine that would be off-putting to most people, and I doubt most people would do things to me that would… make me react like this. I think something’s wrong with me. It’s not healthy to respond sexually to threats and violence – even if it comes from someone as eloquent as yourself.” He felt his neckscales darken a little, and wanted to hide away again.

“You don’t know a lot about Cardassian society, do you? You keep on speaking about it as if, despite all the horrors we put so much effort and dedication to commit, Cardassia were yet another candy-sprinkled world of the Federation, inhabited by a very sweet merry-go-happy population. We are a harsh people, we are normative, and some would call us totalitarian without being exactly wrong,” the tailor brought up. “Oh, of course, you’ll find there is much more to this world than this, but  _ our _ standards for what is considered normal or not aren’t something so easy to grasp for outsiders. It might sound extremely contradictory even, but the only thing that struck me as  _ worrying _ in you so far is your capability to endure tremendous amounts of pain,” he admitted. “ _ Still _ , that you would be turned on by aggressivity, threats and a certain chemistry of violence and self-control is, to some extent, rather normal ...on Cardassia. To some it is more about the heat of intellectual debates, to others it is rather the ignition of a physical argument,” he patted his lap. “It isn’t uncommon to flirt by seeking conflict, and if we get a response, it is a most delectable feeling – is it not? – to be the center of the other’s entire focus and attention? And to push their buttons and let them pull your triggers, to explore each other’s limits.” He had to wonder if that was something Julian had already figured or not at all, but he wasn’t going to ask. The situation was perfectly fine as it was. Melekor could appreciate the explanation and he let himself be soothed by it.

“And aside from sexual attraction, does love play a role in it?” he asked rather gently, “How do you pursue amorous relationships? Assuming that they are a separate thing, because they certainly are to me – I haven’t been in love since Arkadyen, and that’s… pretty long ago,” he realized and winced.

“I can’t make any generalities on a topic as vast and complex as love,” Garak inhaled for inspiration. “Enjoinment is important as a social status, because it implies an alliance between two persons forming a family, and family is the second most important part of Cardassian life, next to the State. But enjoinment doesn’t always equal love, although it would be  _ highly _ offensive to admit it publicly, and an  _ absolute _ disgrace. A joined Cardassian couple must always appear as a unified front in public. And if they wish to pursue flirts or romances of their own, it is private and must stay so. Hidden. Secret.” Not that all Cardassians cared to be discreet as much as they should, something Garak would know about, and bitterly so… “As long as you know the difference between public life and secret intimacy, it is up to you to navigate both your feelings and sexuality as you see fit. Enjoinments are strictly ‘ _ heterosexual _ ,’ as Federation would view it. Cardassia views it as the reunion of the two social roles in which her people are divided, as a symbol of cohesion, completion and synergy. It would be a great imbalance to allow members of a same social role to unite publicly, as it would encourage inbreeding.” He had many opinions about that, but they weren’t for him to disclose, especially not to Melekor. The young man would have to make his own mind about it all. “For this reason, it isn’t so uncommon for polyamoric constellations to weave enjoinments of convenience and build stronger relationships between the families.”

“Were you joined?” Melekor dared ask, even though it would likely cause the other to get upset, “Back on Cardassia, did you have a wife and children?”

“Thankfully not,” the tailor said with a smile. It wasn’t a lie but sure felt like one, although he gave no clue about his feelings. “I suppose I didn’t dare to pursue the chances I had because I was too focused on my passions, and maybe I was somehow trying to achieve another sort of status…” he mused. Beyond their assigned social role, members of the Obsidian Order were an embodiment of Cardassia as a whole, after all. Enjoinment was mostly pointless to one who was already complete – but Garak had felt incomplete. Children especially were something he came to think of and miss as he looked at the small thing Kel had been in Palandine’s arms. He’d wondered if the child could,  _ might _ have been his own, but Palandine was firm that her baby wasn’t his, and he’d chosen to trust her blindly. Basking in Enabran’s safe haven, the young agent had reckoned he was blessed with way more than he should ever have had. His father had told him countless times how much of a weakness he was to him, and Garak knew that the children he could have would be as many weaknesses to the both of them. He couldn’t do this to his father, now could he?

His blue eyes had turned dreamy for a moment. A bittersweet pain pinched him over the additional memory of Cardassian war orphans on Bajor, and the thought that did cross his mind as Julian stood by his side that day when they were investigating Rugal’s case – but this would have been wrong and impossible. A disservice to all. Tain may want him to grow old on this station, Garak held the hope that his father would forgive him someday, and if that day was to come, Garak shouldn’t allow himself to have a life of his own.

“Maybe I’ll consider it someday, who knows… if I come to need it,” he nodded. “It’s a bit too lonely on this station for me to have any use for such a status, and it’s not a place where I would ever wish to raise a Cardassian child.”

“But it’s not  _ so _ lonely as you say, I wager,” Melekor pointed out, “But I guess your choice companion wouldn’t be seen as valid, either way,” he smiled a little and leaned back in the couch, eyes closed – Garak stiffened at the innuendo. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Far be it from me to use something like that against you. Besides, I like you. I wouldn’t want you, or anyone you care for, to be hurt.” Melekor may like him now but Garak knew feelings were rarely a guarantee for the future. The emotions that ran through the spy swirled and spun like a storm, lacerating him inside.

“Does that mean you shall think of making it easier on me and start caring about yourself then?” he chose to say instead, relaxing as well, resting his face on his fist, elbow on the armrest and his other arm on the backrest, looking at the other. “I have a certain fondness for you, and I quite hate to see you hurt,” he pointed maliciously.

“I suppose I shall, then,” Melekor agreed. “I suppose you find me to be a potential threat now. You wouldn’t be wrong, but I’m not like my mother. I don’t blackmail people, I just let them let themselves be used.” Like Lykes, Garak figured.

“What about we forget about your mother for a moment and just play kotra, if you’re game for it?” he suggested and went to replicate a board.

Melekor welcomed the proposition with enthusiasm, “Do I learn as I go?”

“If you wish. There’s no fall like free fall,” Garak allowed himself to smirk smugly – he knew far too well the other didn’t stand a chance, but he was curious to see how daring he could be nonetheless.

He didn’t go for a quick death however, viciously drawing the game over almost an hour. Melekor, on his behalf, had rarely had so much fun being on the losing side, and once Garak had pulled the last move and killed off his last standing piece, he stared for a moment, as he hadn’t anticipated  _ that _ exact approach.

“That was  _ shameless! _ ” he exclaimed, amazed at the other’s brilliance, “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it though,” he tapped a finger on the table, “It’s not so unlike encryption. Another round?” – the door chimed before Garak could answer, and Melekor turned his head towards it. Somehow, they had both already guessed who might be standing outside.

“I’ll deal with it, you stay there,” Garak got up, more serious. He opened the door but stood in the way, staring at Ywanna. “You might find this extraordinary coming from a Cardassian, but I cannot recall inviting you over,” he smiled. “Could it be because I didn’t?”

“I’m  _ only _ making sure my son makes the right friends,” she said as pleasantly as if she had given him a compliment, sparkling a radiant smile, “I’ve been looking for him ever since this morning; I didn’t find him in his quarters and feared he might be at infirmary -”

“If you’re looking for the infirmary-”

“I was looking for  _ him _ ,” she cut.

“And now you found him,” Garak smiled. “If you’ll excuse us-” She interrupted him again, with a tinkling laughter.

“Why, I have to hand it to my  _ son;  _ he does have a talent for picking  _ most _ caring and defensive friends. Ah, but I trust he’s in good hands with you, Mister Garak – tell me though, how  _ is _ Tain these days?”

“Tain?” he repeated with slight amusement. “Excuse me, but could you specify which Tain? I would happen to know several persons bearing this elegant name. That we’d know a same one would be absolutely incredible in this vast universe,” he chuckled. “But give me some names, let’s give a chance to coincidence,” he invited her to speak further.

“No, you’re right, we couldn’t possibly know the same one,” Ywanna answered with the same amusement as Garak held. “If you could tell my son that I expect to speak to him tonight, I’d appreciate – I have something  _ very important _ to relay to him about his half-Vulcan friend. Now, I won’t waste more of your time and let you carry on with whatever you’re up with.”

She had quite some nerve, and Garak could even appreciate it. He looked at her leaving as to check she wasn’t going to turn around, then closed the door. “Are you still up another game?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” answered Melekor with a bit more energy than he’d intended. He had to wonder if his mother really had something to tell about Timun or if she was just baiting him, but chose to focus on the game. For all he wanted to ask her, it was too early yet.


	20. Day 16 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (shorter chapter for the sake of pacing!)

After only one hour of ride in a sleek, white supersonic train that smelled fresh and nice like paradise, Savras and Timun took a city cab of a contrasting design – the entirety of the inside was clad in a soft, black fabric-like material, and the glass of the windows too could turn darker when exposed to bright sunlight. Timun grinned at her with a bit of embarrassment as they drove through the elegant streets of Tierf.

“So, how does my rich, kinky Vulcan feel?” she asked with a playful nudge.

“I just hope my father won’t be around,” Timun admitted. “But how about you? Are you enjoying Tierf so far, or is it a bit too clean to your liking?” he asked, cheeky. “I must say that even our suburbs are really clean, it’s nothing like the place you live in. We have very little problems, people are generally quite happy, and the rebellious youth struggles to find things to complain about. It does feel a bit weird! ...Even our caves and our punks are clean. I’d even say they’re very hygienic and careful when it comes to sex, even violence – moreso even than the normal population! ‘Fuck the system but don’t bother innocent people too much,’ if you see what I mean,” he chuckled. “I suppose it’s really quite cute, and sometimes I don’t know if it’s a very good sign, or a sign that we’re completely hopeless.”

“It’s not a lot unlike home. I mean where I grew up,” she clarified. “It was a tidy area; we didn’t have any punks though,” she leaned against his shoulder. “So you go to sex caves, then?” she teased him, “I was right, you  _ are _ a little pervert. Tell me, did you try things no one ever should? What did you like the most?”

“For symbionts’ sake, Savras!” Timun almost squealed in outrage. “That’s very private!” he flushed and laughed a bit nervously. It was a thing to talk about it, and it was yet another to talk about it while in his home city. “I  _ may _ have tried certain things,” he admitted, looking through the window. “Have you ever heard the song  _ Sex Pocket _ by Joined in Filth?” he suggested. “Well, that’s not the smartest thing to do, but it does feel pretty nice.”

“That sounds like something Melekor would listen to,” Savras pointed out, capable of figuring out what the song might entail just judging by the title, and she burst out in a small giggle, “You’re right, it doesn’t sound smart, but I could understand why you’d want to try it – personally, I wouldn’t. I’m a bit ticklish there, and not in a sexy way.”

“Really?” he immediately assaulted her there with tickles, wary of potentially violent reactions. She let out a loud shout, quite a shrill one, though it didn’t take her long to catch his wrists and force herself up against his chest, closing their distance so tight that he couldn’t really reach to tickle her anymore.

“You sly, green-blooded fiend,” she scolded him, although lightheartedly.

“Oh, come on,” he laughed. “And my blood is actually pretty blue!” he corrected her amidst his hilarity. “I’ve seen my own blood often enough to know!” Not that he’d seen it since he received his glasses, but what did that matter? Savras blinked in sudden realization, letting Timun’s wrists go to hold him.

“You are too precious to be real,” she told him gently, stroking her lips over his, “When you blush, you blush green – your skin tone makes it subtle, but it’s there, more visible than red blood. And the small blood vessels in your eyes, they are green too – you’ve got your mother’s blood, sweetie. Green like the heart of a Vulcan,” she nuzzled him, “I’m surprised no one ever told you that before.”

“Wait, what? I…” he looked at his fingers and located a small bit of skin near the nail, the sort that could easily be ripped off and made to bleed – which he did. His eyes widened at the sight of the bright copper green color, and he had to lift his glasses to see it blue as he always had before. Dropping his glasses back on his nose, he observed the color with sheer puzzlement. It wasn’t as bright as ginja juice, and it did have a bluish tint to it… It didn’t look  _ so bad _ , but it was new and disturbing. He looked up at Savras again, at last.

“It’s fucking weird.”

“I could imagine how you’d feel that, if all this time you thought it was blue,” she shrugged, “Trills don’t have blue blood either,” she patted his arm a little, “I know some fish do, though...” she kissed his cheek, “I like you more than I like fish, Mister Lykes. And I’m quite fond of fish, I’ll have you know.”

##  * * *

The cab stopped in front of a small sportshall in the suburbs. The neighborhood counted mostly houses, but some small buildings too, all spaced in between gardens and large streets with very little traffic. It was peaceful and pretty, with an architecture predominantly dating from the previous century, halfway between elegant lines and something more rough – really, Timun thought it looked like a child made an approximate pile of building blocks and someone added arches around the abstract shape to add movement. As a child, the Vulcan thought of it like a mountain challenging him to climb it.

“We live in the back,” Timun gestured at the little complex. “That’s where we give care, and martial art classes,” he said, taking his luggage and leading the way. “There are also other people working here, giving dance, theater and fitness classes. And there’s the hairdresser, yes,” he looked at the salon on the right of the building. “There’s also a swimming pool on the roof level, and there used to be a midwife too, but that business moved somewhere else a few months ago.” They didn’t enter through the building’s main entrance, walking around instead, and came in through a door on the side, further away.

“This is where we live,” he smiled as he entered the code to unlock the door. Quite like the cab, the house was mostly dark inside, with deep shades of anthracite and charcoal on the floor and walls – thankfully, the ceiling was creme. There were certainly a lot more stairs than was necessary – two steps here, three steps there – but it gave a much more organic feeling to the space. That was the indoor “cave” architecture of the late twenties of the 23rd century. There was even a little indoor pool covered in mist. A window bay in the kitchen to the left (which was at the back of the building), let in a lot of light and warmth, which accumulated nicely in the open-space.

“Come in and make yourself at home,” Timun invited his girlfriend in. “We surely have something to drink in the fridge,” he confidently strolled to the kitchen.

“Do you think anyone is home?” Savras asked him as she took his arm and caught up with his pace, “Feels a bit odd to walk into a new house, without meeting the host,” she added rather carefully.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be fine with just me,” Timun lifted her chin to scold her gently. “At this hour, my mother is probably giving a lesson, and my siblings should be at school. I think we have about two hours to surprise them all with lunch,” he observed what food was in the fridge before eyeing at the bottles of fruit and vegetable juices. “Choose whatever you want, I like everything,” he dumped the decision on her and reached a cupboard to get some glasses. Savras had no issues with that division of chores, picking a glass bottle of some sort of purple juice that smelled sweet but strong, a couple of trenga fruits that could be sliced and served to at least a whole family, then some smoked and sliced meat, a cucumber and a small bowl of black plingiberries. As Timun looked at the garden outside, he noticed Mimir was nosing against the glass door, and went to let the cat in.

“Ah, well, here’s your host then!” he caught the sandy cream feline. “This is Mimir, the sturdiest cat you’ll ever know.”

“Isn’t that the most precious thing! Second to you, of course,” she added with a wink to Timun, but went for the cat with her snuggles.

“I gave up trying to compete with cats ever since puberty,” the Vulcan chuckled and abandoned Mimir in her arms – not that the cat complained, purring already. The Vulcan inspected the food Savras had chosen while serving them a glass of podyrf root juice – a drink that was a bit astringent but, oddly enough, made you want to have some more. When he turned around, holding the glasses, looking at her in the sun with the cat in her arms, he wondered if they could ever live like this. Would she even want it? Wasn’t he just being hormonal? He just smiled, saying nothing but “You’re beautiful.” She was so much more than that, but the word meant what he meant.  _ She _ was beautiful. “I’m in love with you, Savras,” he blushed as he gave her the glass. He was in love with Melekor too but it didn’t even have to be incompatible. It was only complicated, and a bit painful, because Melekor was an idiot when it came to feelings.

The woman blinked a couple of times, glass in a hand, cat in the other, and the reality of the words settling in her mind, then in her stomach, where it got warm. She smiled softly and put the cat on the floor, the glass on the table, and took his free hand in hers.

“Most of the time, I fall in lust – but you? You’re different, you are very precious to me. When I look at you, all I want is to make you happy... I love you too, Timun Lykes. You are  _ such _ a sweetheart.”

“I guess I’m quite loveable,” he said, “but I don’t take it for granted.” Joyful bubbles and butterflies fluttered in the Vulcan’s belly. She didn’t pronounce his first name often, and he still couldn’t figure whether he liked to hear Timun or Lykes more. Both made him giddy. “May I take you on a little tour around the house before we start cooking?” he stepped closer and kissed her.

“Absolutely,” Savras laid an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek, “I hope you have a map, in case we get lost; this place seems huge!” she giggled. The cat pawed at her leg a bit, trying to steal her attention away from Timun, but failed to, for a change.

##  * * *

A little later, Timun and Savras were cooking and laughing when Nysar came in and through the living room. She stopped, coming back on her steps to peek in the kitchen where silence had settled. She looked at the two persons there, acknowledging their presence, and kept on her way to the bedroom, to change clothes. Only once in more casual wear – black pants and a teal t-shirt of Trillian cut – did she return to the kitchen.

“I thought you were gone,” she stated to her son.

“I’ve returned,” he stated back. “I’m happy to see you, mother. This is Savras, my girlfriend; Savras, this is my mother, Nysar,” he introduced the women to each other.

“Pleased to meet you,” Savras burst in a friendly smile, then added almost in confidence, “I wish I could say that your son told me all about you, but he’s very secretive. All I know is that he is as fond of you as a son should be,” she squeezed his waist a little. “It will be interesting to get to know you.” It was funny how Nysar was a lot shorter than him, but Savras found her very cute in her attitudes – Vulcan but not devoid of spunk; her slanted almond eyes hosted malice in their warm shade of brown. Nysar looked at Savras then smiled.

“Getting to know you should be promising too. My son has a talent for bringing ...interesting persons here,” she shot a glance at him.

“Be glad I didn’t bring you the Cardassian,” Timun rolled up his eyes. “But more importantly, did you know I have green blood? Savras told me just two hours ago!” he goofed. “I always thought it was blue!”

“You disgrace me and all your Vulcan ancestors,” Nysar squinted furiously at him. “Sometimes I really wonder how you managed to get your medical diplomas!” she went to get plates to set on the table.

“So do I!” he laughed. “I’ll take the cutlery; can you take the glasses, Savras? The purple one is for Dzini,” he specified. “Are the kids coming home together?”

“As usual,” Nysar replied. “You’ve been away for three weeks, nothing has changed here.”

“I suppose it’s been a bit more eventful for me…” Timun reckoned. Savras glanced at him as to ask him if his mother was always this snappy. Nysar noticed and addressed her with a softer expression.

“So, what can you tell me about you, Savras?”

“I work in public transportation,” she started, “my job is to flirt with Trill businessmen and Bajoran monks, and sell as much candy to parents with children as I can. In other words, I’m an everyday scoundrel, and shameless about it – or at least I used to be, until they decided to update the dress uniform to something that looks like it was designed by the Romulan army,” she grimaced a bit, “I can’t tell you how much more difficult it is to flirt with people when you look like you’re wearing cardboard boxes.” Nysar looked at her and burst in a joyful laughter with a hint of sympathy.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she beamed. She approached to stare at her a bit more closely. “Are you planning to reintegrate university or to start your own business?” she asked.

“Don’t psych her already!” Timun complained, coming in Savras’s back to hug her around the waist. “It means she likes you though,” he murmured to her ear. Savras shook her head a little – ah, Nysar wanted to see if there were ambitions. She couldn’t blame her, at least not in this society. Her parents had had the same concerns about her wife back then.

“I hold enough diplomas to get Joined,” she told the other woman rather smugly, rubbing Timun’s hand, “I think I’m quite possibly the third or fourth person ever to intentionally quit the symbiosis program. My parents were incensed,” she smiled happily. “To think that some people would value ambition and power over the wishes of their own children...”

“Of course,” Nysar nodded. “I have quite noticed that your physical features, markings, vocabulary and speech don’t align quite too well with your occupation and physical condition. I take it you are the more underground sort of person, then?”

“Mom, stop…” Timun sighed. “She’s a good person, that’s all matters.”

“You like her,” she nodded.

“I’m in love,” he smiled.

“Just behave in front of the kids. And did you tell her of your problem with…” she gesticulated a little to mean  _ alcohol _ .

“That’s why he’s here, actually,” Savras intercepted with more serious, “though I think it’s something for the two of you to discuss in private; I don’t think I would be of much help – I have a big mouth, I tend to screw up when I try to help.” She smiled a little, not yet realizing how big a mouth she just had, “Is there anything else I can do to help prepare the lunch?”

“Oh, well, yes, uhm, ah, food on the table,” Timun flailed towards the dishes they prepared. “Well, not  _ directly _ on the table of course,” he snickered nervously. His mother was studying him. “We can discuss that later, not all the good news at once, haha!” Timun grinned.

“What exactly have you done, Timun Lykes?” the woman squinted at her son.

“Adult things?” the young man tried to give a blurry answer. “It’s probably better we talk about it when the kids don’t risk to intrude right in the middle of-” He interrupted himself as the entrance door opened.

“Mom, we’re home!” came Jabin’s voice. The seventeen year-old froze in his tracks once he caught sight of his brother. The little girl however screamed Timun’s name and ran to him, arms spread to lock them around his legs. Catching sight of Savras, she looked at her with neutral curiosity.

“Who are you?” she asked a bit bluntly.

“Savras Wayan,” she answered him, then added, “not Joined,” she glanced at Jabin then back at Dziana. “Could have been, but decided not to. Unusual, right?” she smirked.

“Quite,” Dziana nodded. “Why are you here?”

“She’s my girlfriend, sweetie,” Timun picked his sister from the ground. “You’ll have to be nice to her.”

“Hm,” she wrapped herself possessively around her brother, keeping dark green eyes on Savras.

“She works on a spaceship,” Timun murmured to her ear. The child’s eyes brightened at once.

“What sort of ship!?” she suddenly flailed to try and reach Savras instead. Timun chuckled and set her in the woman’s arms to go hug his brother who had approached like a discrete mouse.

“How’s school, Jabin?” he smiled at him.

“Good. Are you coming back home? Something went wrong?” the teen studied his brother with quick eyes, worried and almost scared.

“It’s nothing you should be concerned for, come,” Timun invited him to help their mother bring the food and drinks to the table while Savras had a most delightful runover of the ship’s general outlay (but made sure to tell that it had its own personal quirks, and that really, the only one who was good enough to keep it running, was her good friend Melekor, who so happened to be Timun’s friend as well). Dziana seemed equally delighted to hear about it, and was, understandably, quite disappointed that Melekor wasn’t there too.

The dinner continued in the same optimistic and cheerful colors, and the discussions mostly centered around mundane things, like plasma injectors and self-sealing stem bolts. Then, it ended up being about Bajoran culture and, eventually, politics. For that one, Savras laid low. She was pretty sure that Nysar noticed, but was grateful that she didn’t exactly bring it up. The meal ended soon enough, and Savras felt quite relieved that she’d lived through it.

“That was extremely satisfying,” she nodded as she said it, especially happy with the plingiberries – the little white furry tip was the best part of the fruit as it dissolved on the tongue like fuzzy sugar.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. We are quite fortunate to make a good living,” Nysar nodded, also refraining from throwing herself further in political talks. She set her eyes on Timun then back on Savras. “Maybe you’d like to see Dzini’s own blueprints? She’s been designing ships lately. Jabin,” she turned to her second son, “would you be so kind as to take care of the dishes before going to do your homework? I need to have a little talk with your brother.” While the suggestions were supposedly open to refusal, nobody voiced any protest and Timun sheepishly followed his mother to her office, which she locked.

 

“So, what is this all about?” she asked. “I heard you’ve been  _ detained _ on that space station?”

“Ha! So you’ve been in contact with Jaden?”

“He stayed a few days last week. Didn’t stay for long, he seemed very stressed and I cared not to ask why, but Jabin has been troubled ever since. Makes me regret I didn’t inquire further…”

“Maybe Mynx told him his own father is blackmailing his brother?”

“Blackmail?” she repeated.

Timun sighed and told her the story. The bottles of Romulan Ale, his stupid reaction and the reason of his detention, how Jaden got him freed without charges to better blackmail him after… “I came back to take a blood sample from Dziana. I need to know,” he said. Nysar sat on the bed, silent.

“And if it’s what we fear?”

“We won’t have to fear anything anymore,” Timun said. “You saved my life and… I believe I left you no choice but to do so. I compelled you with a mating bond, didn’t I?” She didn’t answer so he went on, “I’ll tell Dziana. She needs to know now, she’s almost nine, it  _ can’t _ wait much longer, and I’d rather she learns it from us than…”

“I’m sorry… I can’t let you do this. Your father would throw us out, and with all his contacts… There’s nowhere we could go.”

“I’d sooner kill him than let him stop us from living our lives,” Timun hissed. “He’s no father of mine and he’d sell any one of us to save his miserable hide. He’s more of a Ferengi than a Trill!”

“He didn’t use to be like that…” she looked down. “I’m not sure what happened and when… He’s my husband but I haven’t known him anymore for years. Am I a bad mother, Timun?” she asked him honestly. He gave her a look of shock.

“How could you ever doubt yourself?”

“I thought I was protecting you all by turning a blind eye on his shady business, but now I’m starting to wonder. What if he’s gotten himself into something as dangerous as the Orion Syndicate?” It was a frightening prospect and Timun swallowed hard.

“Then… then the least we know, the safer we are.”

##  * * *

Savras made the best of the moment by asking Dziana to go get her blueprints, while offering to help Jabin with the dishes, drying them as he rinsed them. The little girl reappeared soon enough to lay some of her drawings on the floor in front of Savras, eagerly explaining the design choices – and they were, really, very impressive. Some of them could even be made into fully functional vessels, Savras reckoned easily.

“But why put the main computer so close to the shield generator? If you were to be caught in a hostile situation, they’d aim for the generator first, and if they blow it up, the computer goes too,” Savras offered her advice, “though, let us all hope that such a thing wouldn’t happen. It’s very rare, these days.”

“No, that’s a correct observation. I like you. You are very smart, Miss Wayan,” the little girl acknowledged politely. “It must be accounted for, because there will be war again. History has taught us that peace only lasts for so long.”

“It’s going to be fine, Dzi,” Jabin murmured as he put the dishes back in the cupboards. “It’s going to be all fine…” Savras gave him a sorry smile. For some reason she was almost certain he felt worse about Dzini’s words than she did.

“Conflicts come and go, it’s better to be prepared than not. I’d rather consider it a risk than an inevitable fact – there is such a thing as self-fulfilling prophecies. A society that doesn’t believe in its essence that there won’t be any more wars, will end up at war again – it gets more difficult when not all players think alike, though,” she smiled a little, “Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, I guess.”

“A sound reasoning,” Dzini nodded. “Why aren’t you the captain of your ship?” Savras chuckled.

“Captains aren’t the only ones who have responsibility aboard. After all, a captain is never more capable than their crew,” she shook her head, “and likewise, a crew can’t accomplish much, if the captain is an idiot,” she thought of Jederza, and how she didn’t like him very much in this moment.

“Miss Wayan,” Jabin stepped closer, looking embarrassed. “May I ask you a question? If you changed your mind on being Joined, it means you went through the Commission… Did you- Did you ever learn of the way Guardians are selected for their duty?”

“No... I have my suspicions, though – I’ve been able to make deductions. They are never mentioned as an open position, which leads me to believe they might even be especially chosen at birth or, quite possibly, a small society of their own – what I  _ do _ know about them is that they are forced to commit to the decisions of the Symbiosis Commissions  _ ahead _ of their own personal judgement – which I think is wrong,” she added, then bit herself at the tip of her tongue and cursed herself inwardly for entering into the  _ one _ subject she had said she’d avoid.

“Thank you…” Jabin said more like he was apologizing. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I’m sorry. I’d better go do my homework.”

“You told me you have no homework today,” Dzini peeped.

“Then I’ll repass my lessons…” the boy corrected just as sadly.

“Jabin...” Savras reached after the boy in concern, “you really should consider asking them... even if I’m right, that means that such a closed society came from somewhere. There may very well be people who are born with abilities that they look for, to expand the genepool, so to avoid inbreeding. And I’m not embarrassed,” she continued and sighed, “I just have opinions about the Symbiosis Commission that are incriminating. And I told Lykes – I mean Timun – that I wouldn’t talk about it.” Her shoulders slumped, “I’m useless at keeping silent.”

“I could feel… I mean, I didn’t make it easier on you. I don’t wish to bring you any trouble when you have so many, and my brother…” he closed his eyes. “I’m really sorry… I wish I could do something…”

“Do something about what?” Savras asked with a frown. It would seem Jabin knew a lot more than he should, and she had to wonder if he wasn’t a mind-reader towards people too, the sort Ywanna would have liked to meet. “Wait, don’t tell me, but... if there’s something that troubles you, maybe you should go speak to your mother? Granted, she’s busy with Timun but... surely she wouldn’t mind helping you?” He shook his head.

“It’s a Trill problem, not a Vulcan one, and Timun… he doesn’t like our father…” he looked down. “When you were studying, did you learn anything about diseases that may afflict symbionts?” he still dared to ask.

“Well, when a host and a symbiont merge, their lymphatic systems merge. I think it’s safe to say that what has an effect on the host, also has an effect on the symbiont – that’s why it’s so important that host and symbiont are both compatible, but also Joined under supervision. So many things could go wrong; if the host is severely sick at the moment of the transplant, there’s a risk the illness will carry over to the new host. There are some diseases, however, that don’t seem to have an impact on the symbiont – cancer is one of those. But, if one were to get cancer while Joined, getting treatment isn’t an option, as the symbiont might end up rejected, which would kill the both of them anyway,” Savras leaned against the counter. “You think the Mynx symbiont might be ill?”

“I don’t know. Usually it’s fine, but last time there was a vivid pain.” He hesitated before adding, “My father takes medicine but I don’t think the Commission knows. If they knew…” he shook his head. “Someone did something to them, and it wasn’t someone from the Commission,” he whispered in a low voice. “I’m worried something’s wrong with one ...or more of the hosts… I think something really wrong happened.”

Savras wasn’t sure what to answer to that, so she did her best to try and commit it to memory instead. The idea didn’t entirely fall out of alignment with the kind of theories she’d heard spoken by certain groups, but she had to admit she very much doubted  _ those _ conspiracies had anything substantial to them.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if your father made a lot of enemies. Power is vulnerability, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. All I know is that the shadow is getting closer,” he muttered. He shook his head and hugged himself some more. “I should go repass my lessons. Exams are all I should worry about, hm?” he forced a smile and turned away.

“Yes,” Savras agreed, “that would be the better choice, indeed.” She shook her head a little as the teen disappeared to his own devices. A difficult age; she remembered it pretty well. Things would brighten up for him, she was sure.

##  * * *

Not long after, Timun and Nysar came back. The woman smiled at Savras and Dzini who was correcting her blueprints by the Trill’s side.

“Seems like she adopted you,” the mother commented. She glanced at Timun, showing a bit of apprehension as he went to sit by his sister’s side.

“Dzi… Can you give me your arm just a second?” he showed a hypospray. “I need your help for a little experiment. It’s not going to hurt.”

“I know,” she gave her arm willingly, “Hyposprays don’t hurt, they just make the sound of the  _ ssssnake _ ,” she hissed the English word.

“Exactly, and here goes the  _ sssssnake _ ,” Timun trailed the nozzle on her skin before activating it. Copper green blood filled the capsule. “Look, what color is it?” he showed it to her.

“Green,” she answered. “Jabin and dad’s blood is red.”

“I always thought our blood was some shade of blue,” Timun snickered.

“Because your eyes are  _ derpy _ ,” the little girl replied as if the word was very formal.

Behind them, Savras reached the Vulcan mother, “Nysar, could I speak alone with you for a moment?”

Timun raised a curious eye toward Savras but figured she’d tell him anything important later, and opted to just keep on his conversation with Dziana, while packing the sample. “I might go out with Dzi,” he just said as Nysar nodded to Savras.

“That’s noted,” she nodded once more and led Savras to the kitchen, just to get the little privacy she’d asked for.

“You have three very talented and intelligent children, Mrs Nysar,” Savras wasn’t sure if Vulcans used surnames, and opted for this weird usage of titles, “While this would normally be a compliment, I have to admit I’m concerned about something Jabin said. I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are a lot of extremist groups growing in power under the foundations of this society, and  _ a lot _ of them are looking to recruit teens in their most vulnerable years. Especially those who are intelligent enough to see things that the Symbiosis Commission doesn’t want seen.” She took a deep breath, “He implied something that he derived from conversing with the Mynx symbiont, something these groups would swallow whole. I’m also concerned that he might just be in the position in life, where he has a hard time visualizing a future for himself, and I’m afraid the Commission might not be able to give him the meaningful life he yearns for – these separatist groups I speak of, however, I’m sure they could and would provide him with a sense of purpose. I think, perhaps, you should speak to him before they do – you don’t want him to get involved with what society would view as terrorists.” Nysar listened, resting against the counter and looking at the garden outside. The grass needed to be clipped, some bushes needed some care too.

“And what should I tell him? That this world has no purpose for him because my blood is green?” she looked at Savras. “I’ve been exiled because I believed in a more harmonious way of life for myself and my people. On Vulcan, expressing emotions – something you view here as a most natural thing to do – is viewed as terrorism. Here, Joining or taking care of symbionts is a privilege, and those who have the natural instinct for it but don’t fit the social and financial criteria are viewed as terrorists. How am I supposed to explain him I am a terrorist on my homeworld and to ask of him not to do the same, when our claims are just as rightful?” she raised her arched-up eyebrows. “Mrs Wayan, he would call me illogical, and he wouldn’t even be wrong.”

“I’m only Miss, actually,” Savras said with a hint of regret, “and if you want logic, perhaps you should consider how little difference  _ your _ terrorism made to Vulcan society as a whole. The extremist groups I speak of are  _ not _ peaceful. If they were to decide so, we’d go into a downward spiral of civil war – the only reason we’re not, is because the authorities still have enough power to conveniently get rid of key persons within these groups. But if we ended up in civil war, the ones who would suffer from it most, would be the symbionts. The Guardians would be killed, the symbionts stolen by force, and those who are Joined would be forcefully taken away and killed in favour of setting the symbionts into other people. And while all of this goes on, who will care for the symbionts? I don’t think the Guardians nor the Commission are the enemy. I think the  _ only way _ to come to a more humane society, is to change the Symbiosis Commission from within. To get into politics, to make one hell of a good point – but these people are treated like animals, so they strike back like animals would, and make just as much difference – that is to say, none. Now, do you really think it would be logical for your child to join them as cannon fodder for a war that can’t be won that way? Get him to pursue politics, if you have to, but please, don’t let him be taken advantage of.” Nysar smiled and laid her hand over Savras’s.

“Violence is not the future I want for him, but I worry. He’s still struggling over the decision to apply to the Commission or not. Jaden wants him to, even though we all know he will most likely be rejected despite being mostly Trill in biology. I think Jabin would like to change things from within, to be there to care for the symbionts, but does he even stand a chance? And how are we supposed to support him when he faces institutionalized discrimination?”

“He’d have to do twice as good for them to accept him as host, true,” Savras acknowledged, “but if he were to have a Vulcan lifespan, I think he might be able to turn that to his advantage. I think it might be easier on the symbiont as well – I know, it goes against what the Commission thinks, but with all due respect to them, they are not the only ones entitled to having an opinion. I think it would be  _ perfect _ for the symbiont to be allowed to change host as  _ rarely _ as possibly. I can’t help but to wonder if they wouldn’t have longer lifespans themselves, if they weren’t constantly bounced from one host to another,” she interrupted herself, “I talk too much, don’t I?”

“Quite,” Nysar agreed, then added, “For one trying to give safety advice, that is,” she smiled. “But I heard you, and I’ll take your words in consideration.” Glancing to the living room, she noticed Timun and Dziana had disappeared. “I have another lesson starting in three quarters hour; would you be interested to help me prepare the gym a little?” she offered. “Unless you’d rather stay here and wait for Timun.”

“I’ll be happy to help out – I think Timun could use some time with his siblings rather than me, anyway,” she told Nysar, “Believe me when I tell you that he’s not had the best past two weeks or so of his life. I think some rest and privacy would do him well.” Nysar chuckled.

“He always had a talent to get himself in troubles bigger than him, but thankfully he’s also blessed with a gift for slipping out of them. I’ve about given up hopes that he may ever live a calm and tranquil life. If he manages to keep himself alive and smiling, that’s good enough for me,” she told before going to collect clean sportswear and leaving with Savras.

##  * * *

The queue at the post office wasn’t long at this hour of the day, but the automates were as infuriating as usual. It took a good moment for Timun to figure how to select a destination out of Trill and out of the Federation. “Bajoran space, is it so hard?” he fumed. When he saw the price of the shipping, he thought he was going to die. How outrageous could it be? “That’s almost as expensive as going myself and back again! What the heck’s wrong with those postal services, really?”

“That’s because they haven’t updated the program,” an old woman snickered behind him. “It still thinks that Bajor is occupied by the Cardassians, and so there’s the tax for risk areas. I know because my daughter’s a chemist and went to Bajor, on a caritative mission to help decontaminate soils that were polluted by the Cardassians when they left,” she came closer. “May I?” she reached for the screen and tapped it a bit, quickly entering access codes to reach the internal system and manually prompt the OS to restart on a newer version. “There, it should be fine now, but you’ll have to redo the encoding,” she apologized.

“Well, thank you…” Timun nodded. “Did you use to work here?”

“Have you ever seen anyone  _ working _ here?” she laughed. “They just  _ slack _ . No, but my son inherited the symbiont of someone who actually designed those programs. I didn’t see the point for him to get Joined, but he proved me wrong.”

“Ha, well, thank you ...and him too, then,” the Vulcan felt a bit embarrassed with the revelation and classist speech. “I’ll just…” he gestured at the screen.

“Of course, of course, you’re welcome,” she finally stepped back.

At last, the price turned out a lot more acceptable, and selecting the destination was a lot easier too. Timun paid and the small package was sucked in by the machine. “There it goes,” he gulped. With a bit of luck, Julian would receive the blood sample some two days later.


	21. Day 16 - III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: gender topics  
> Melekor confronts his mother about the medical acts performed on him when he was an infant, and truly, there are no good answers to that...

As evening came on DS9, Melekor chose to go to his mother’s quarters, since he didn’t want her to come into his. She let him in after a couple of signals, and he was met by the stark scent of lilac incenses – she had been meditating. The room looked like he’d expected it to; she’d brought her things, including her carpet – black with a silver circle, within which she sat for her meditative sessions. Candles were lit and placed throughout the quarters, and a bowl of a harsh orange liquid was placed on the table. It looked as though something was swimming around in it.

“I’ll see you later,” his mother came out from her bedroom, closely ensnared with a rather elegant-looking young man. Bajoran, Melekor noted. One that was rather uneasy at the sight of him, nonetheless. His mother pecked her lover on the cheek, while all he could do was to  _ stare _ at the  _ Cardassian. _

“Uh, yes, sure,” he mumbled as he hurried away across the room, and out through the door. Ywanna sighed and flailed her arms out.

“You  _ could  _ have timed that better,” she told him, then went to sit in the circle, while motioning for him to sit in front of her. He didn’t comply.

“Mother,” he said rather cooly instead, “I  _ know  _ what you did to me when I was... just a child.” She smiled, which made him even more stiff, “I’d like to know  _ why. _ ”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she told him firmly, “nor is it important.  _ I _ have something to tell you.”

“That will have to wait,” he could tell by her expression that she was displeased at his response, as well as surprised, “I have... internal female organs. And they  _ used _ to be external. But you decided to operate on me when I was an infant –  _ why? _ ” Ywanna sighed and got up, walking towards him.

“Because you are my  _ son _ , Melekor,” her hand against his cheek was warm, and the comforting caress was whispering to him to give in, to lean into the soft embrace, “When a Betazoid is pregnant, she forms a bond with her child. She knows her child before her child is born. She knows what her child is. You were a boy, Melekor. All along, it was predominantly a boy’s presence I felt. A son,” she took a step closer, but Melekor took a step backwards. He didn’t want a hug.

“What do you mean  _ predominantly _ a boy?” he asked with a growing shrillness in his voice. Ywanna sighed.

“Listen, Melekor. People get born with the incorrect sex  _ all the time _ , and they often go through extreme pain because of it. Dysphoria, depression, suicide... had I not intervened, you would have been one of them.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” he maintained, even though it felt like his own throat was trying to strangle him.

“All you need to know is that you’re mostly a boy. The rest, it doesn’t matter,” Ywanna waved her hand, “It would  _ never _ have been worth keeping those organs surfaced and letting them be active. You would have been unhappy.”

“ _ Doesn’t matter?! _ ” Melekor felt like slamming something, “How can you say that it  _ doesn’t matter _ when all my life- how much is it? How many percent?” He swallowed his anger, and turned it into something much colder.

“You can’t measure gender in percentage,” Ywanna crossed her arms over her chest, “I knew this conversation would be useless, which is why I never told you.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he pointed an unsteady finger at her, “it’s inconvenient to  _ you _ , but not to me. Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me  _ now _ . Tell me exactly what makes you believe it doesn’t matter. Tell me, how large a portion of me is female.” His mother seemed like she wouldn’t answer at all at first, turning around and heading back to the circle, standing within it with her back turned to him.

“Around forty-five percent.” Melekor stared at her back. Stared at the uncaring way she’d said it, the casual tone of her voice.

“That is _ nearly half _ ,” he couldn’t believe how  _ weak _ he sounded in comparison to her, but that weakness was about to go away, as he continued, “It’s nearly half of me – and yet you chose for me!  _ You chose for me! _ You think you know me better than I know myself, don’t you? You... smug, self-absorbed  _ bitch _ ,” he only vaguely saw her turn around, as he himself did the same, slamming the door panel and throwing himself out of the room, too angry to even cry.

He was going to Quark’s, and he was going to get drunk, and he  _ didn’t care _ . She didn’t follow him. He knew, because she didn’t want to make a scene.

He’d never insulted her like that before, and he felt  _ thrilled  _ that he had. So much that once he reached Quark’s, he couldn’t help but to laugh a little as he sat in the bar chair next to Morn.

“Quark!” he barked at the Ferengi, “I want Kanar, and I want the strongest you’ve got, because I’m here to get so drunk I won’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Not that again…” Quark rolled up his eyes but still came over with a glass. “Blue worked quite well last time. Now, tell me, Melekor, did Garak set you up to this?” he asked as he grabbed a bottle. “I warn you, I won’t wait for you to get a seizure before calling the doctor. I  _ know _ you’ve been at the infirmary more than enough lately, and I don’t want to be the one to send you back to it this time.”

“It’s not Garak,” Melekor muttered, accepting the drink, and sipping it, “It’s my mother,” he groaned at the concept, and sipped some more, then took a huge gulp, dizzying himself at the same time, “she’s been lying to me my entire life, Quark. About me,” he wasn’t drunk enough to tell Quark the entire story, nor did he think the Ferengi was the first person he wanted to tell. He emptied the glass, and shoved it across the bar, “More.”

“The latinum first,” Quark tapped the counter, slightly outraged to have seen the blue go down before the gold came in. Only once the metal was shuffled did he comply. “And I thought Betazoids didn’t lie…” he shook his head. “Damn, she’s breaking it to both you and me,” he served himself a glass too, but didn’t drink it entirely as he recalled how sweet the beverage was and made bit of a face. “Ew-well! You know my lobes are here to hear you out if you need to empty your bag so to better fill it with alcohol like all real men do,” he offered his compassion in hope of some confessions. Quark’s sentiment caused Melekor to simply swing his glass, emptying it too fast for his own good. Then he glared at the Ferengi.

“On  _ shecond thot _ , I’ll drink alone,” he had issues pronouncing the words, and wasn’t sure they made sense to Quark as he slid across enough latinum to buy the entire bottle instead. Once he had it, he took it and walked off, intending on offering to share it with Garak.

##  * * *

That Savras lost her spar to Timun shouldn’t have been so much of a surprise – he  _ had _ the strength of a Vulcan and was well-learned in martial arts – but the woman was so used to being stronger than her partners that she couldn’t help this strange feeling. It wasn’t unalike getting emasculated, and yes, women could feel emasculated. Not that Timun wouldn’t have entertained the notion. To make up for his victory, he taught her some moves and let her sweep the floor with him a bit too.

It was a rather sweet moment all in all. The physical proximity, the contacts and energy, the huffs and Savras’s Klingon battle cries… it all made for a nice sexual tension, one that lingered like smoldering embers under the ashes. The tender heat turned more romantic as they laid on the floor of the spar room, devising about their experiences. Savras had a lot to tell about the Klingons she met when the Levossa made the junction to the Empire’s border. Timun’s stories were more alike to a carnival of accidents. He told of the one and only holosuite training session he ever had, and the young Klingon girl who nagged about him being  _ too Vulcan _ to hold a bat’leth. How he sent her for a stay at the hospital and was kicked out of the class because the sportshall didn’t want the local news headlines to read ‘ _ Half-Vulcan child kills his friends _ ’ or anything such. He’d gone for parkourdunk instead, a discipline requiring none, and probably the punkest sport on Trill.

Evening come, Nysar, Timun and Savras set to cook for dinner. The Vulcan woman told but shortly of how her classes went – “good” and “the usual” – before starting to inquire more about her son’s late activities and “the Cardassian” he’d mentioned before. She knew he hadn’t told everything there was to be told about his roommate, and she could sense there was more to this secrecy. Reluctantly, Timun obliged.

“He’s only half-Cardassian, right? And… what would the other half be?” Nysar cared to ask about the point her son seemed to be avoiding.

“Betazoid,” he muttered. He didn’t even need to look at her expression. “I don’t think that makes him a bad person. He’s quite nice and charming, albeit a bit messed up. But yes, his mother is something else. She’s the most despicable person I’ve ever met; dad is a sweetheart compared to her,” he grunted.

“Betazoids…” Nysar hissed, “I’ll never forgive him that,  _ never _ .” The delicate glass she was holding a bit too firmly suddenly broke, causing everybody to jolt at the surprise. Shards and water on the table, green blood on her hand, stupor on her face. “I’m sorry,” she excused herself, hurrying to the sink.

“I’ll get the dermal regenerator,” Timun strode out of the kitchen, leaving his mother to Savras’s care. The young woman had to admit it wasn’t the first time she’d been around people who racistly badmouthed her friend, but it  _ was _ the first time it happened in relation to his  _ Betazoid _ heritage. She clenched her teeth a bit as she got up, took a scraper and started to gather the glass shards scattered on the table into a junk bucket.

“It’s not  _ his _ fault he’s half-Betazoid,” she tried to explain as calmly as she could, going on about how Melekor wished he weren’t Betazoid at all and suffered from his abilities, which he had to suppress with that dangerous medicine of his. “I’ve seen him lacking it twice in my life – once when we were stranded in the Datapas II belt for three days, and once when we were stuck near the Klingon border. He starts hallucinating, then he gets paranoid, unless he get seizures first –  _ those _ are almost as scary as that one time when he nearly shot me because he thought I had been replaced by an alien,” she rolled her eyes at the concept, “But as you can see, he takes rather quite some risks to suppress his Betazoid heritage, so I wouldn’t be so judgemental if I were you.”

“I’m sorry,” Nysar said again, pressing a napkin against the cuts to stop the bleeding. “I hold no grudge against him for being ...what he never chose to be,” as she put it. “My grudge is toward my own husband for bringing some Betazoid deviants here  _ to save our son’s life _ , or so he said,” she squinted. “I have never been so outraged and it is hard not to think of those persons whenever their species is mentioned.” Savras’s lips shaped a silent  _ oh _ , and she put the bucket of glass shards aside, leaning against the counter. She didn’t want to inquire for any further details, but her brow furrowed in thought.

“Do you love him? Your husband, I mean,” she asked, feeling rather impudent about it (and she didn’t mind being impudent).

“I love Jaden, but I’m not sure I love all of my husband,” Nysar answered in cold honesty. “Maybe a Trill like you, who went through the Commission and left it, would understand what it entails to pair with the multifaceted entity that a Joined Trill is ...maybe not. Jaden was never perfect, but back then he was Jaden. He still is sometimes,” she closed her eyes.

In the living room, Timun had resurfaced and hurried to come heal his mother’s hand. She smiled at him and caressed his hair, though sadness showed in her eyes. Savras had to feel sorry for Nysar, even though she didn’t entirely understand what she meant.

“Both my parents were Joined,” she told. “I wouldn’t call them multifaceted; in fact, there were times when they felt more one-dimensional than anything. They saw the world only through the eyes of Joined individuals, a one-sided perspective that grew quite tiresome – they’d expect you to listen to their endless stories borrowed from other people’s lifetimes–” Timun hummed loudly in agreement to that, suggesting his father wasn’t exempt to that behavior – “but if you were to offer an opinion just a little out of alignment with their vision of the world… There are many reasons I try to avoid contact with Joined individuals. Prejudice is one of them, due to my parents. They tend to lean on romanticism a little bit too much for my liking, but I guess the Commission is to blame for that. Or what do you think, Timun?” she hinted at him so he could join the conversation.

“Hm, me?” he shook his head negatively. “They are quick to take their privilege for granted and they become condescending, feeling like they know everything better than anyone else. In the end they become infatuated with themselves, their past lives, figuring out how their past hosts altered them and boring the crap out of everybody else with their endless rants,” he ranted himself. His mother smacked his head a bit because he was starting to lose his focus over his healing task, and he sheepishly resumed to what he was doing. “I think that Joined in Filth’s song ‘ _ Shut Up Motherfucker _ ’ sums it all very well.” He was about to ask the house computer to play it when his mother smacked him again.

“Not your savage music again,” she forbade, then softened as she looked at Savras, smiling. “Timun had one or two nice friends who got Joined, but it didn’t work out so well after,” Nysar said. “Jaden was already Joined when I met him, however. I suppose those odd changes are part of the reality with those people.”

“He’s only acting nice sometimes to confuse us and make us forgive him,” Timun grunted. “He can’t blame everything on being Joined. He’s a manipulator and I just can’t trust him.”

“Gaslighting,” Savras observed with a small nod, “Melekor told me of it some… two years ago. It’s when someone’s being largely abusive, but then there are times when they are nice and normal, and you forget the other things they did, because it stands in a too stark contrast to their atrocities for the atrocities to be real – and they lie,” she shook her head, “about things that don’t matter, small things. It’s to invalidate your own point of view and make you doubt yourself enough that they can make you into whoever they want you to be,” she paused, appreciating the irony of it being  _ Melekor _ who had told her about this phenomenon in the first place. Timun on his behalf had to feel a little hurt that Melekor had accused him of this before.

“Anyway,” she changed subjects, “guess what I got in my inbox today?” she grinned a little, “A court summon!” she continued excitedly – a reaction a bit out of the norm. “The trial takes place three days from now – I pressed charges against someone,” she told Nysar, “I expect to take her down this time, and I  _ look forward _ to it!”

“You do seem happy,” the Vulcan woman noted. As her hand was healed, she brought the salad to the table and rang the crystal bell to announce dinner was ready without having to shout disgracefully like a barbarian. Mimir arrived first and she threw a handful of niblets at him, giving the small feline something to hunt on the floor.

“Savras is pressing charges against Melekor’s mother, that insane Betazoid woman,” Timun explained a little more and tucked his dermal regenerator in his pocket, heading to the oven instead. “I hope you win, darling,” he told his girlfriend as he picked the small cakes to bring them to the table, “I too would love to see her bite the dust…”

“And she should,” Savras chimed in, heading after the cakes, sniffing the air, “I have a lot of proof, including medical files. She’ll need to pull some serious bullshit to get out of this one – ah, pardon the language. It’s just that mind control  _ is _ rather a crime, and it’s not even the first time she does it to me,” she pouted begrudgingly as she sat by the table, “I can’t believe the things I said to poor Jabara.”

“She didn’t hold it against you afterwards, though,” Timun snickered and sat. Nysar wasn’t as amused.

“I do expect the court has means to protect themselves from her mental influence then? Do you have any knowledge of dispositions they take against telepaths?”

“If she could do something on that scale, she wouldn’t have had her application to study the Symbiosis Commission rejected,” Savras pointed out, “A pity that had to happen, I tend to think she would’ve done an excellent job. Hey, I can be pissed at her and still recognize that she’s smart.”

“What was her interest in studying the Commission?” Nysar asked while ringing the bell some more.

“Ywanna is a writer ...or something?” Timun tried to answer, starting to serve the food. As the kids came in, he sniped at Jabin to get the jarax cream in the fridge, to have with the cakes. The teenager complied, also apologizing for coming a little late – “We’re a bit early too,” his elder excused him.

“Her front shop is being a writer, yes,” Savras nodded in appreciation at Timun and sat next to him, “What she’s  _ really _ up to, though, is an attempt at studying various species capable of telepathic or empathic abilities. Many of the worlds she has visited have been those of telepaths or empaths – or those impossible for the very same to feel, such as the Ferengi,” she smelled her food, and started cutting it up, “She is very fond of studying the psyche as a phenomenon. Once, she let me look into parts of her research, but it was all way beyond my very basic understanding of those things. But at any rate, it has a lot of promise in regards of research – it’s incredible how she’s funding the entire research out of her own pocket, though I can very well understand why she wouldn’t want to go through any of the universities out there. I am prone to believe some of her methods are a no-go for official people, and I can relate to that,” she lifted a piece of food to her mouth, “Being a volunteer journalist has its downs, but the ups are certainly worth it.” Nysar didn’t comment but concluded that that funding probably had some shady side to it. It was her gut feeling.

The conversation quickly derailed onto Ywanna being a control freak, then to one of Timun’s ex-boyfriends, Daven, who escaped his controlling parents by snatching a symbiont through the Commission to then run away live a life of his own as circus artist. Timun made sure the topics got lighter and lighter, and he was soon pleased to see smiles on his siblings’ faces. It pinched his heart still as he missed them dearly, he now realized. And yet, he knew he would have to go again through the star-dotted darkness of the universe, far far away from home. And so like a kid, he engaged in kicking Jabin’s legs under the table, gently at first, until he got a reply, and then until one of them let the pain show through – he let himself give in first. Nysar fumed and scolded them both, but as soon as it was over, Timun poked his brother’s ankle again and winked at him, as an encouragement to never give up.

Dziana told about what new things she’d been reading about ships and what new words the computer taught her. The technicity was fascinating, maybe a little concerning too, though Savras did seem to recognize some of the words. Timun sometimes wondered if it was appropriate for a child her age to spend so much more time learning rather than playing, especially considering she was a bit behind in matter of social skills – people said she was very mature for her age, but that was quite a way to embellish what may very well turn out to be a flaw later on. Still, so long as she seemed happy, Timun was fine with her taking her time to grow up.

“When I apply to Starfleet, I’ll have to learn how to pilot a runabout and such,” he said. “If you continue like this, you’ll end up knowing those things before I even start the classes!” he joked.

“Maybe I’ll even teach you if you can be quiet,” she replied with a haughty Vulcan expression.

The table laughed, and somehow, Savras ended up telling an anecdote about that very old Bajoran priest who had been very calm and silent all through the trip to DS9 “– and back again, all the way to Trill, before we realized he wasn’t in fact sleeping,” she told. “Of course, with him being Bajoran, we decided to take him along a third time, so we could deliver him to the hands of his people. It was a little bit awkward, but at least he died in the comfort of a three-star-ranked transport ship.”

“Ew, you didn’t let him in the same seat, next to some other passengers, I hope?” Timun made a face. “I mean, I would expect such a ship to have mortuary stasis chambers for this exact purpose.”

“Of course it does, silly Timun,” Dziana let out a crystalline laughter. “I looked the plans; the chambers are in the infirmary, on the lower passenger level.”

Timun looked at Savras, sighing and shaking his head. “She knows everything,” he said as if himself was hopelessly useless. Savras smiled softly at Timun – he’d have to do a lot to beat his little sister at something that seemed to be her sole interest in life.

“You would have known too, if you’d looked at the blueprints,” she pointed out as to comfort him, “But to answer the question: when people die and are left for a bit too long, they become sort of rigid. So we actually  _ had _ to transport him in the seat. Not very dignified, but at least we restricted view of that seat. People still had to go to their destinations, business as usual...”

“It must have been funny!” Dziana laughed. “It is funny because it is very inappropriate but also you didn’t have the choice! How did you remove him then?”

“Ah, that I can explain!” Timun chimed and proceeded to detail a bit more the different steps undergone by the body after death – though he spared everybody the more gross details, because it was meal time. Savras found that it didn’t matter  _ what _ Timun was expertly talking about, he was all the hotter regardless of topic. If she hadn’t known he was a doctor, she would’ve been a bit more concerned about his in-depth knowledge of death than she was however. Yet, she spent the remainder of the meal listening to the conversation, that turned into something more medical. She couldn’t help but to notice that Jabin wasn’t much part of the conversation at all, and she felt like she should drag him into it somehow. It was difficult to find the moment, however, and her plate was empty before she’d gotten the opportunity to encourage the teen to share his views. Then again, he was probably thinking about other things; he didn’t seem as interested as the others in these topics.

“Thank you for the food,” she finally offered her gratitude, getting up to gather the plates, “I’ll do the dishes this time – I expect you to dry them for me,  _ Timun Lykes _ ,” she gave him a meaningful look and got to her task.

“Of course,” the young man jolted behind her, wrapping his arms around her belly and kissing her in the neck. “I’ll bring you satisfaction to encourage you to keep on ordering me around,” he purred, “because I love it when you do.”

“You’re not alone in here,” Nysar reminded them – her son especially, in case he’d get oblivious to decency. Timun chuckled a little but silenced as he caught glimpse of his brother looking a bit miserable again.

“Hey, Jabin, why don’t you help us? You can put the dishes back in the cupboards once they’re dried,” he winked. The boy considered the proposition and decided to oblige while his mother took her daughter to the bathroom for a shower together. It was nice to be just the three of them, and Savras glanced a bit at the boy.

“Jabin, I noticed you weren’t very engaged in the conversations at the table, are you alright?” she asked with concern as she handed Timun the first plate to be dried.

“Yeah…” Jabin answered automatically, then thought about it. “No,” he admitted and looked at his brother. “Last time you saw dad, did he… Did he seem like different persons?” he asked.

“If you mean he was pretending to be nice so long as there were other people to witness, and turned an asshole the moment we were alone… then yes, definitely. But that’s how he is all the time,” he shrugged sadly. “I know it’s hard to admit, I know you still love him because he’s your father – I’ve been there too – but it’s the bitter reality, he’s-”

“I know, I know,” Jabin cut off, shifting in annoyance. “It’s not what I’m talking about. I meant something more, something different than just the usual shit he pulls with us all,” he pressed. Timun gave it a thought.

“I know he seriously failed at trying to charm my Cardassian roommate, but I thought he was just messing a bit, not even trying maybe… And when he made those threats to me, it felt like he had nothing to actually ask of me after. Like threats for the sake of it, but then again, I’m not sure. Maybe he’s going to show up in some time and ask something of me,” he winced.

“Maybe his symbiont is getting old and senile,” Savras theorized, thinking of what Jabin had told her before, “it’s rare, but it can happen. A symbiont with a deteriorating sense for time is not one you want to carry... of course, when that happens, you can apply to the Commission to have the symbiont swapped out for another, once they feel the symbiont you carry doesn’t have a worthy life anymore. I doubt he’d get approved for Joining  _ again _ though. The Commission is a lot stricter than it used to be.”

“But he’s so clear and lucid when I talk to him!” Jabin frowned. “If he were senile, wouldn’t communication deteriorate instead of improve? No, I felt like Mynx was trying to tell me something happened. It felt like a scar,” he said in lack of a better word. “Not something from a fight, but…” he bit his lips and put a pile of plates in the cupboard. “I wish I could know if he told the Commission about it or not, though my guess is he didn’t.”

Savras silenced as she rinsed the plates. She knew what she thought, and what she wanted to say, but at the same time, she didn’t want to alarm Jabin, and she certainly didn’t want to fill his head with ideas and concepts that could be incriminating if he wanted to get Joined at some point, or work with the Commission. Savras refused to destroy that for him. As they were about done with the dishes, she turned to Jabin again.

“You’re a fine young man. Whatever Mynx told you, or what you see in your father, don’t let it gnaw at you too badly. Observe, and keep those observations to yourself. Seek information if you must, but never in direct questions. Be discreet. That’s all I can say, really.” The teenager nodded obediently and forced himself to change his mood to something less worried, almost enthusiastic.

“Thanks. Well, while I have you here, can I ask if there’s  _ any  _ advice you’d give to a youth who’d like to go through the Commission?”

“Blend in, be enthusiastic, don’t question them, but be bold and know what you want to do with your life. If they think you have no goals other than getting Joined, they’ll wash you out – a precaution to make sure the previous hosts don’t have an impact on the newest. I find it dumb but, well, make something up if you have to – oh and, don’t be too shy. Flourish,” she made some wiggly movements, “you have to show that you love yourself.”

“And a more personal advice than what we can already find easily out there?”

“Don’t know more than you’re supposed to,” she simply told him, in its rather blunt truth, “knowledge  _ is _ power, but to be in power is to walk on a thin line, and depending on which end of the web you’re in, you might not get caught once you fall. Now,” she smiled a little, “I believe any more questions you have will be better answered by officials. I’m  _ just _ a conspiracy theorist, don’t forget that.” He looked at her and nodded with a little shrug.

“Sometimes I wonder why I even worry about anything instead of just being happy with my rather privileged life,” he sighed.

“Well, I’ll take care of bringing you back on the ground then,” Timun said, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at Jabin’s. “You, me, in the gym after this. I’m going to check if you can still pull a Gamari-Neda correctly.”

“Sure,” Jabin squinted in agreement.

##  * * *

It had taken a bit longer than normal for Melekor to reach the tailor’s quarters, and he  _ had _ to lean against the wall to press the chime, else he would have fallen. Of course, he wasn’t very smart, and had leaned against the door – a position that would inevitably cause him to fall on whoever opened it. As the door did open, it sent the half-drunken half-Cardassian spinning and tumbling into Garak’s arms. The older of the two swore inwardly and reminded himself that, hopefully,  _ soon _ , Melekor’s visum would be approved and he’d disappear from his life entirely. That made three nights in a row and Garak felt mildly uncomfortable with it – he hadn’t expected Melekor to be back so soon, and certainly not in this state.

“Shall I understand it didn’t go so well?” he still worried, leading the way to the couch – at least his flat was re-ordered enough since the previous day’s medical investigation, and recovered a minimum of coziness.

“I’m forty-five percent woman!” Melekor tried to tell him, but it came out slurred and near impossible to make out. He slumped down into the couch, made sure Garak was holding the Kanar, and then he leaned his elbows against his knees, and his forehead in his hands, “She said it doesn’t matter.  _ I _ said,” he winced and gesticulated with his left hand, nearly hitting himself in the face, “that she’s a  _ bitch _ , and then I left. And Quark was just  _ so  _ rude.”

“I see… What did you say first?” Garak petted the other’s back.

“I said, I’m practically half-woman,” he blinked a bit at Garak and tried to find the words, “Forty... five... percent,” he mumbled miserably, “and she says it doesn’t matter.  _ Half of me doesn’t matter! _ ” he laughed a little, despite himself, “I guess... especially how  _ I _ feel doesn’t matter,” he added almost joyfully, “’cus she made up her mind about that already. And she’s a  _ bitchazoid _ and they are never wrong.” Garak snorted.

“Well, well, that’s not a word I had even imagined could come out of your mouth anytime soon,” he admitted and held up the bottle of Kanar. “I’ll get us glasses if you don’t mind,” he went to the replicator and ordered two glasses (of Kanar without alcohol, he specified in a lower voice while hiding the bottle in a cupboard).

“I must admit I don’t understand how half of you couldn’t matter. Or even one percent of you, for all that is,” the tailor sat back near Melekor, handing him a glass. “But let me cheer to the boldest and most honest word I’ve heard from your throat and your heart so far,” he grinned and lifted his glass. “To your freedom of speech,” he toasted, “to your freedom of thought and the freedom your body still deserves,” he added more softly. Melekor grunted in answer, lifted his glass a little, and emptied half of it at once. It didn’t taste as good as before, but he figured it might be his tastebuds getting dulled.

“What am I supposed to do?” he agonized, almost to himself, “If – if I’m  _ both _ , how do I choose which one to be?” he asked Garak, looking at him rather drowsily, “I feel like I don’t exist.”

“But you do exist, and nothing has to really change, unless you want to,” Garak sipped more quietly while going to replicate a bottle of non-alcoholic Kanar Blue. “Cardassia will assign you as female because that’s what your organs are. You’ll most certainly be offered to have your genitals surgically altered back to what they should be like. But as for what you feel you are… it’s all up for you to decide. You can be one, you can be the other,” he came back and started to refill the other’s glass, “you can be both in alternance too-”

“But not both at the same time,” Melekor added to the concept, accepting his glass and holding onto it, looking into it rather than at Garak. He wasn’t even sure what he  _ wanted _ to be, and shrunk into silence for a moment. “I’d like to be more feminine,” he finally admitted, “I liked it better, how I appeared then,” he thought of the woman reflected back at him in the glass window, “but... I don’t want to change  _ everything _ about my body. And I’m not sure I want to be referred to as a... as... as a woman. I don’t know,” he looked at Garak with blurry confusion, “Does that make any sense to you?”

“As a matter of fact,  _ yes _ ,” the tailor tilted his head to the side a bit. “I’ve sometimes wondered if I might not like myself more if I were… a bit different, physically, but investigating those thoughts would have been highly impractical and unrequired ...by anyone but me – and I wasn’t my own top priority, or at least not in that regard. I suppose I’ve always favored exploring my femininity through that of others, though my occupations, or through other people’s bodies as I tailor for them,” he mused aloud, weaving lies and truth tight enough that they couldn’t be distinguished. “But I still appreciate my maleness and to be referred to as a man. It’s a bit confusing for myself too,” he shook his head and looked down as well, “and I don’t even have the excuse to be born like you to justify those feelings.” He silenced for a moment, thinking, sinking further into his tale.

“When I wear dresses, I am well aware of the transgression; I enjoy it even,” because he needed to see a Cardassian in them sometimes, to fool himself into thinking he wasn’t that alone on this station, “but I still don’t feel exactly more feminine. I am shameless, but I am still but a man in women’s clothes. I play one more role, I take pleasure and amusement from it, especially if I can go so far as to fool,” he didn’t specify  _ himself  _ and smiled instead. “But  _ you _ ,” he turned to Melekor with a somewhat impressed fascination, “there  _ was _ something more than this to you. It seemed like you were a different person, and yet it was still you. You were frail in confusion but oh, so strong in vibration. I could tell this dress didn’t simply align with the line of your body, but with something much deeper.” Melekor nodded a little, then leaned against Garak, just for the realness of him. He sighed, then leaned his head against the tailor’s shoulder, looking ahead of them.

“What I saw in the reflection, was a woman,” he agreed, closing his eyes on reality for a moment, to make her more vivid, “a part of me. A  _ repressed _ part of me, an  _ angry _ part of me. And hurt, too. How do you reconcile with that? How do I mend the divide between the two things I am? I don’t want to be two halves, I want to be one whole, but I’m... scared ...that she might destroy me.”

“I’m not very well learned in those things, but I suppose you would get counseling on Cardassia,” the tailor suggested. “Maybe you need to be destroyed to rebuild yourself, however, and isn’t that something one must do all the time? When you were a child, there was a time when you had a vision of the world filled with misconceptions, but as you grew up, you learned how incorrect your ideas were, and what the truth was – and as science goes, the truth is rarely set in stone either. We evolve, we change, we revolve… And if you feel lost, maybe you are just being transformed,” he finally looked at him again. Those words were a little too complicated for Melekor, or maybe he was just a little too drunk for them yet, so he kept silent while turning them inside out for a good while. Meanwhile, he was inhaling the other’s scent, a pleasant enough spice.

“If I decide to stay a man, I will have to... enjoin with a woman?” he asked finally, after his brain had worked itself through the mist of his thoughts, “If that’s the case, I’ll have to become a woman, because I’m not interested in women in that way,” he continued, finalizing his line of thought, “Their company just doesn’t feel the same as the company of men, I can’t explain it.”

“Ah, yes, some people are like this,” Garak nodded – he’d never really cared about the gender or body of those he’d been attracted to; it was more a matter of vibration and connection to him, but he could very well understand that others would have different criteria. “Well, you might end up being a beautiful androgynous female that one would address as a man then,” he raised an eyeridge while trying to put all the words in the right order. “I’m pretty certain that it’s quite possible?” He’d seen shit much stranger than this, it  _ had _ to be possible. Down to it, it wasn’t even  _ that _ strange. “And if you were to conform in a way or the other, I believe we have extremely efficient medicine to treat dysphoria if you ever were to require it,” he added. Not that he’d tested it himself however.

“Thank you, Garak,” Melekor sighed with delight as he tried to imagine what it would be like. Having never seen Cardassia, the mental image was lacking severely however. He smiled nonetheless and caught the other’s hand in his own, squeezing it a little, “Thank you for telling me these things, for... helping me navigate myself. You’re a very good person, and very attr- attentive.” He’d nearly cried, and had to rub his free hand a little at his eyes to make himself calm again.

“Ah, but you are very welcome,” Garak patted his shoulder, appreciating that the other seemed to sober up a little too. “You seem to feel a bit better now, that’s all the reward I need. Do you think you’ll be fine?”

“I think I might even be more than fine, at some point,” Melekor told Garak, a small grin finding its way to his lips. He would be fine, yes. Once his mother decided to give him up, and he was free to settle into a useful role in a society that would give him purpose.

He  _ wished _ he could pursue things with Garak. But whatever Garak had done to end himself up on this station, away from his people, certainly made that too much of a stigma, potentially for the both of them. He was pretty sure that being the child, acknowledged or not, of a man highly ranked in law, made such a union even more of a taboo. Still, Melekor rubbed the other’s fingers a little.

“I hope I could come visit you sometimes,” he said gently, as to not appear too creepily over-clingy. He certainly  _ felt _ like he was a bit overly much, “or that I could send you gifts. But I understand if you’d rather I didn’t. And I won’t do anything that would make you uncomfortable, I care about you.”

“This is a most lovely sentiment,” Garak pulled a strand of hair back behind Melekor’s ear. “I know I could use a friend or the likes of a little brother, but this station  _ does _ get a bit hectic at times. I’ve  _ seen _ quite a number of rather unsettling things happen here in the past two years: when it’s not some kind of pandemic spreading over quickly or snow on the Promenade, it’s the whole place being nearly torn apart by aliens or an uprise of Bajoran extremists attempting to take over the station, or the Maquis now…” he sighed. “You’ll probably be safer on Cardassia,” he clung to the other’s fingers a little, “And we’ll still get to talk on subspace sometimes maybe. You’ll probably be busy most of the time, of course, but if I can get some news of how you are doing and how the world is going, it’ll almost be like I’m there too.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Melekor said with a giddier voice, pressing his lips against the other’s fingers before letting him go and laying his empty hand in his lap. A sting of loneliness nagged at him, but he chased it away. Garak was the  _ first _ Cardassian he’d ever met; there would be others. He’d find someone else to long for, in time. But would that really mean he’d stop longing for Garak? He still longed for Arkadyen, whom he’d never had, and Maniel, though his longing for Maniel was less about love, and more about the intimate friendship they had shared.

“I once had a very close friend; Maniel Dalkar, he was called,” he decided to tell Garak distantly, “We met in school, and we were instantly drawn to each other – it wasn’t sexual nor romantic. It was… intellectual, I believe. We had a connection. There was something nearly electric between us, something more mutual even than love.” He took a deep breath to go on, “I’d visit him at his grandparent’s house very often; it was a relief from my mother’s constantly watchful eyes. We’d play games – a bit like kotra – and we’d share music, opinions and feelings. When he was pulled out of school in favour of homeschooling, I started singing in the same choir as him, and we kept in touch. Until we were, I think, twenty years old or so. Then... he just disappeared,” he looked at Garak, fresh tears in his eyes, “he disappeared, and he never came back, and when he was declared dead, I refused to believe it at first. But once I did, there was no grave to go to. No final resting place – it was as if he had never existed at all. And I  _ still _ miss him. I’m never going to know what happened to him – how did he die? Did he suffer? Was it very painful? Was he afraid? How long did it take? I’ll never know,” he looked at his empty hand, and closed it. “Friendship is pain, Garak. My mother always told me not to keep friends, not to get emotionally involved. But I did, and I have again, I care about you, and now I wonder, will I miss you like I miss him? If something were to happen to you, would it haunt me the same way?”

“I suppose that’s a risk,” the tailor answered with honesty, “but maybe also a privilege.” He silenced, wetting his lips a second before continuing, because Melekor’s words did a great job at stirring his feelings, for Pythas especially. “It is a lonely existence I have here, I won’t deny. I miss a number of people. Some are dead, some are alive, some I don’t know, and some… are alive and it hurts more than if they were dead, somehow. Sometimes, walking the past is more comfortable than the present, especially with those who died. After all, they still live in my memories. At times, I sit with them as I did in the past, to reenact a discussion we had, or seek their advice,” he set a hand on his heart and inhaled the present time. “And for those shrouded in a darkness I cannot fathom, I try to achieve for me the serenity I owe them. Those who loved me certainly wouldn’t want to see me suffer,” he said, wishing he really were capable of said serenity. “The memory I have of them, at least, is caring and helps me to care for myself. I hope that, in time, you too may let your friend lend you strength, as I hope I shall, were something to happen to me,” he held Melekor’s hands. “I promise you however; I  _ do _ intend on doing absolutely all I can to stay alive. I’ll even visit the infirmary if I really must,” he joked, letting the other drink the words from his lips – figuratively, although he could tell Melekor wished it could be more literal. The youth held back his fantasies and Garak allowed himself to rewind a little further back in the conversation.

“But for your friend…” he started, unsure as to whether it was his spy senses or his paranoia that tingled, or just his personal experience –  _ get too lost in your thoughts, people can surprise you; or ghosts from the past _ , he recalled, “Maybe you need to talk about him some more? Talking about those things makes them more real, and easier to deal with, because it’s a lot harder to manage an abstract concept than a more tangible reality. When you tell about him, you can feel sensations in your body, don’t you? Pain… Pain isn’t just suffering, it’s also a wonderful tool to become aware of what is wrong, where, and to hopefully tend to it,” he pressed the pulp of his fingertips against the other’s. “Maniel…” he pronounced the name, “Maniel Dalkar. A Trill, I gather? How comes there was no grave? Even if no remains could have been brought back for a reason or another, don’t Trills offer a grave with a name for the family to mourn?” he inquired more like musing to himself. “I thought all worlds with an administration had a need to have a beginning and an end to all lives registered in their files…”

It took a moment for Melekor to answer. It had just struck him that a part of why he was so drawn to the tailor was his unconditional acceptance. Garak was welcoming, patient and he offered something that Melekor didn’t easily get elsewhere: someone to trust in. Yes. Melekor found, to his split surprise and horror, that he actually trusted Garak. That in itself, made a small sting of distrust raise up, as such a person was hardly something that could truly exist. Swallowing that concept with a dry throat, he opted to focus on answering.

“His grandparents were in denial,” he explained. “They didn’t want a grave, so there was none – it was enough, for them, that they had lost their own child, his mother; losing their grandson? They... didn’t get over it. They never stopped waiting,” he nuzzled against Garak’s neck, yawning a little, “On Trill, special circumstances can veto a grave. I guess they considered the loss to be sensitive. I… long to feel with someone, what I felt with him. This spark of mutual understanding, as if you are one of a kind. On the exact same frequency, turning into, perhaps, something akin to a single entity – ah… mother says my Betazoid birthmate would feel like this to me. But I don’t want to meet her. I refuse to take part in an arranged marriage, no matter what Betazoid tradition dictates.” Garak could only understand – those sorts of traditions some aliens had  _ were _ strange and maybe somewhat abusive too, weren’t they? Well, he hadn’t delved into deeper studies of those topics, and decided not to be too judgemental about them, as it would be fruitless to form an opinion on prejudice. He could however spend some pity on the poor young Betazoid woman who was probably missing on a part of her life and tradition due to Ywanna’s decision to choose a gender for her intersexed child and pursue a rite that seemingly disregarded the possible sexual orientation the children would develop. The tailor closed his eyes and kept on holding the other. The pressure against his neck was soft and warm, somewhat relaxing.

“I truly am sorry for your friend,” he murmured. “I was very close to one of my schoolmates when I was a child. Life split our ways, but we always kept an eye on each other. She disappeared completely for a time, as if she never existed at all,” he turned his delicate friend into a woman, “Then, she not only reappeared quite ‘ _ out of the blue _ ’, but I learned she’d enjoined my uncle! He was much too old for her, but I guess he wanted a sweet wife to help him take care of the family,” he sighed. “So, you see, I can relate to the way you feel. The bonds that can bloom in those young and decisive years are something we can rarely find ever again in someone else ...and that in itself is sad. This lack of closure for you must be a wound that doesn’t stop bleeding.” He set his hand on Melekor’s heart and dragged him with ease to sit him on his lap and hug him from behind. It was a most unusual act and for a second, he had to question what had possessed him. He could feel something, but he wasn’t certain what it was. “I do hope you’ll find someone again…” he mumbled, resting his throat on the right side of the other’s neck. The strange sensation seemed stronger with proximity, and he had to admit it intrigued him more and more. Soon, it turned into tickling feelings in his chest, a joyful glimmer in his stomach and an alien-yet-familiar feeling against fingers that weren’t his. He blinked, slight confusion rippling his otherwise relaxed state. He could feel affection softly engulfing him, wrapping around him, but it wasn’t a feeling born from him. Melekor was soaking him with his own emotions, and when Garak dipped, warm, in this gentle embrace, the other presented him with more sensual desires. Those of kisses and caresses, those that tangented on sexual but weren’t quite. And then those that were the prequel to sexual, those that contained the raising of lust, the pleasurable kind of lust that didn’t necessarily require release. Garak’s throat rubbed against Melekor’s neckscales as he gulped once, then twice. It was odd how it all felt incredibly natural, summoning more feelings from within. Curiosity was growing steadily and his focus was loosening while heat between them increased.

“How do you do this?” he finally asked, murmuring to the ear with a voice dryer than before. He had to wet his lips. Gulp again. Melekor closed his eyes and held Garak’s hands gently in his own, to steady himself. He was concerned about the influence he’d already had on him. Concerned that what he was doing might lead to something akin to rape, and that he might end up hurting the other, and himself.

_ “I just sink into your mind like into warm water. But I’ll stop, if you ask me to _ , _ ” _ he spoke within Garak’s mind,  _ “Can you feel my presence inside of you? Like a soft warmth... Follow the glow like a thread, you’ll find me in the other end. Enter that light, and you will be in me like I am in you – it takes practice, and I do not know the full extend of your abilities, but I will welcome your presence, if it comes.” _ He still held the other’s hands to his chest, even if he was starting to yearn for more, for what was forbidden. And really? If something happened… who would ever know, other than the two of them?

Garak didn’t hear that one thought, but he felt it almost as if it were his own. It was entrancing, this way of communication. Wave after wave, shivers came down his back. He followed the glow, the warmth, until his senses blurred in a no-man’s land between their consciousnesses. Like a small fish in a tunnel, he tried to swim against the current, pressing himself forth. Where he was headed, he knew not, but the heat was increasing, appealing and seductive. He gasped as he was finally engulfed in it, suddenly digging his fingers into Melekor, as to hold to him better, both physically and mentally. Somehow, he couldn’t care for the danger of the situation laying in the unknown. Beyond him, beyond reason and defiance, he trusted the other’s welcoming embrace as much as Melekor trusted him back. That the half-Betazoid might trust for the both of them didn’t cross Garak’s mind, already too remote from its seat of power.

The empathic experience ignited him in many more ways than he could have ever imagined. He kept on gasping for air, as if trying to breath for the two of them, lost and found, freed and bound. Lips found an ear, but he couldn’t tell whose parts were whose. He tried to nuzzle, to move, and the shape of a lobe led to the ridges of a jaw that wasn’t his. A moan, a sound, a warm caress. Where was he? Where was he headed? The entire world was being transformed as bodies moved, the only staticity being the path of his mouth. The curls of chin ridges welcomed him, showing the upward way to lips he’d been yearning for for so long now – or did he? Warmth tore him inside out before he could answer, a wave washing him through and through as drapes of silk twirled around him, as wetness swirled inside him. 

Was the kiss awkward? He didn’t know. It only felt good, deep and dark like a blinding sun. Melekor let happen what came, shivering at each millimeter of touch. He couldn’t get out of the other’s grip, but he’d turned more sidewise, letting go of one of Garak’s hands to stroke his neck, catch the hair at the base of his skull, to force his head backwards just enough that he could deepen the kiss even more.

The momentum engulfed him, and he parted away to instead kiss the other’s scales, down to his neck, then up again. A part of him wanted to get up, or perhaps to get down, he wasn’t sure which. Or maybe that was Garak. Melekor flickered the image of the bed in his mind, as a suggestion, or perhaps an instruction. Was he bold? Was Melekor bold? Shameless, maybe? He smiled against those hungry lips.  _ “Take me there,” _ he wished. But Garak didn’t obey, not at once at least, further clinging to the other instead.

This wasn’t wise, was it? His consciousness was diluted but his instinct still battled in a mixture of lust and fear boiling into tension. His lips kept on getting dry, shivers kept on moving him, and desire kept on radiating. He managed to put just enough distance to look haphazardly at Melekor, but his hands lived a life of their own, feeling the young man’s body, turning him over completely so they could be face to face, eyes in the eyes, and close where it was hot. Garak contemplated his prey, unless himself was the catch, and somehow, their legs unfolded and carried them. He wasn’t even sure how they made it to the bed – his feet knew the way more surely than he did, certainly. They tied in another kiss, more hungry as the tailor started to undress the other with near-angry hands. What was he doing? Where was the self-restraint? The delicacy? The decency? Gone, all gone. He’d thrown himself in the unknown and found a kingdom of darkness to ravage.

Feverish hands found their way through the clothes, and the situation was too much of a mess to figure out who took off what. Fabric landed on the floor, hands landed on bodies to find skin and scales paving the way down the glowing core of their entwined lust.

Had Melekor thought Garak wasn’t himself, he would have asked him if he was truly sure he wanted this. But Melekor was  _ certain _ that all that power he felt, all that nearly drunken desire and domination, wasn’t his own. There was true desire to be found in those acts, and so he didn’t ask – selfishly, perhaps, as he thought he might wake Garak from the dreamlike state they were both in. The answer laid woven in Garak’s lust for the scales he unveiled. The spy tailor hadn’t been in bed with another Cardassian since his exile, and the lack of intimacy reminded him of the more depressive years of his life ...so he decided to simply indulge in what was friendly offered, for this time.

Eventually Melekor surrendered and made a display of himself, whimpering, and teasing them both as he moved his hips, heat against heat, squirming slightly, arching his back and lifting his hands above his head to dig his fingers into Garak’s bedsheets, gathering them in his hands. Soft, so soft. The pressure of sheets against his back, and the pressure of Garak upon him, and the pressure of his own body from below, up a skin that wasn’t his, but that he could still feel. Lips found each other again, fingers caressed and clung, feeling the stronger or thinner muscles moving just under the surface, and desire writhed and rose up between them in the intermingling slickness of their arousals. Submissively, Melekor kissed, moaned and breathed against Garak’s neck scales while his own were being treated with dizzying licks. Amazement floated through the tailor’s mind when the younger one parted his lips and found himself whispering a laced net of riddles. It took him a second to realize they must be Garak’s words, for they were in Kardasi.

“Dan’kařm ir sahú izař,” Melekor said, not understanding what it meant as the translator couldn’t pick his own words. But he could gather the intimate nature and the poetry as he spoke them in submission. With a delay, the tailor translated in thought the words he weaved with the young man’s beautiful voice –  _ You bring me home _ , he echoed. He didn’t know how this was happening, but it was mesmerizing. True, the accent was awkward in places when emotion roughed the edges of phonemes, but the experience was so unique that he was at loss to describe it. The young man murmured again.

“Da i’virtem ir son kařdasiya eka’mirmir,  
 _Let me be Cardassia through this moment,_  
“Da sidan’iri virtem son kařm mai’zai.  
 _let me be your home_.  
“Tuva ir i’dasin mai’zai, dova izař pa’tèsú.  
 _I want your scales so do not hide._  
“Tuva ir i’lasi mai’zai, dova izař manauŧ,  
 _I want your skin so don’t escape._ _  
_ “Kaminet vut taminet, fa ramalket va tahkalet.”  
 __Your ridges, your edges, the roughness, the caress.

Silence returned for seconds only. Melekor gasped, feeling Garak’s malehood trailing down, searching for more, seeking to possess, and without needing to ask, the tailor knew he was awaited already.

The air between them felt cold as he straightened up to guide himself inside Melekor, probing and penetrating with more ease than he would have expected if he had been alone in his mind. But they were two, and Melekor was there as they pushed themselves inside him. Did it hurt? Pleasantly so, and the cries sounded good. Familiar even. As both Garak and pain washed over him, Melekor let his hands fall onto the bed and anchored himself there, balling them into fists, holding onto the bedsheets as his breath caught in his chest. He whimpered and hissed between clenched teeth, pressing the back of his skull into the softness behind him. He wasn’t sure whether he had screamed, or if that was Garak – but it felt good, the pain. He felt… loved, accepted. Warmth and softness lingered amongst the burning fires of his own pleasurable agony. His breathing picked up again, ragged and shallow, and he blinked up towards Garak, those blue eyes, those perfect lips. He caressed his presence with warm affection, smiling through the pain and raising a shivering, cramped hand towards him, to ask him to come closer again. He said something, but he wasn’t sure what it was he’d said, because his language was not his own anymore and Garak’s entire being was in too much turmoil to indulge in translation any longer.

Confusion reigned. No longer knowing which of them was on his back, Garak held to Melekor as not to fall on the ceiling. His lover’s hardness brushed against his belly, or was it the opposite? He smiled, or was it Melekor spreading his lips with the warmth of his emotions? “ _ Sharliktem da izař, _ ” came a Kardasi whisper as Garak phrased the young man’s feelings for him. And this time Melekor knew what he said.

_ “Let me love you,” _ he slipped the thought in the tailor’s mind, kissing him and clinging to his rocking back. It took a moment for the other to gather his own thoughts amidst the hazy dizziness they moved into.

_ “Our feelings aren’t the same,” _ he answered like a warning,  _ “I feel more as your elder – you are a fleeting moment,” _ he exhaled the concept. This, this was happening because he’d been vulnerable, because he’d been so close to death that he’d been shredded from his shell, and Melekor saw that. He saw it and cared for him, moved by instinct. Instinct had echoed within Garak, and it was now too late to go back in time. He cared.  _ “I care,” _ he admitted. The rest, he didn’t phrase, but Melekor grasped the concept of family. The tenderness Garak had for him was that which one would bestow a little brother. There was a word for it in Kardasi, but he didn’t speak it.

_ “Family,” _ Melekor echoed like a shadow of a word, clinging closer to Garak, moaning with each thrust, gasping at the depth he felt. The depth he  _ was _ . They were wet with pleasure, and Melekor was wetter yet, forced to tear from the kiss with an explosive growl, eyes flung wide open and hands holding onto Garak so hard it hurt. He cried, tears crossing over the ridges at his eyes, wetting the blanket underneath. He said something, but it wasn’t a word he recognized. On top of him, the tailor let his breath come back to him, though his senses were still blurry and mixed with those of the man underneath him, sweet and tender, loving and… What had they  _ done? _

A question for another day was what it was. Garak was too tired to deal with this.  _ Thank you, that was good _ was all he could murmur through Melekor’s lips as a single word – “Souniŧ” (which quite literally meant ‘ _ lovely’d _ ’).

Melekor stroked Garak’s back and his hair, slowly and gently, breathing the calm that settled over them. He felt sleepy and wished they could simply stay like this, but he knew it wasn’t an option.

“I- I have to go,” he said while simultaneously also thinking within the other’s mind,  _ “I want to stay.”  _ The medicine, Garak could feel the concern.

“Why don’t you go then?” he simply asked, raising a bit drowsily, “And _ come back after. _ ” He set on giving himself until morning before starting to think about his acts.

He let Melekor borrow his shower first, then followed in while the other went to get his hypospray, and welcomed him back with gentle fondness. More protective, more simple in the feelings too. Melekor felt different to him too, and Garak knew the experience was over. He said nothing however, simply laying in bed with him and wrapping his arm around him to hold him close, oddly confident that his presence wasn’t a threat to his own safety. Such was the Cardassian instinct for family.

“ _ Sleep well, little brother _ ,” he murmured in Kardasi, wishing the translators wouldn’t work for a change.

Melekor turned around on the bed, to face Garak and look at him. Through the blur of his sleepy eyes, he saw the tailor as a separate individual and wondered what his feelings and thoughts were, but kept it a mystery by not asking. Instead, he lifted a hand and traced the scales at the other’s cheek with his fingers, then his hair, thumb still stroking the outline of his ear.

He wanted to answer something to the words spoken, but found none of his own, so he pressed a kiss onto his lips instead, before relaxing into a soft, trouble-free sleep – he felt so safe, and so accepted.

##  * * *

The training session with Jabin had turned quite entertaining as the brothers heated up and started messing with each other. The younger had a very good aim and managed to hit his elder in the face a number of times when they started throwing shoes at each other. They laughed, they wrestled in less civilized ways, they cuddled too because Timun needed to hug his brother tight and remind him how much he mattered. Jabin tried to protest when the other started delving into childhood memories, but that was rather an attempt to seem more adult than he really was. Huddled in the other’s loving arms, he gave in the sweet embrace of fraternity.

“So you’re going to apply to Starfleet, finally?” he murmured.

“I thought dad would ruin it in the end if I tried, but I realize it’s my life, my choices, my responsibilities too. It’s up to me to make sure I am independent enough so he won’t interfere. And a nice and sexy Starfleet doctor said he’d be up to having me as intern,” he grinned.

“You hopeless pervert…” Jabin snorted.

“Still no interest in those things on your behalf?” Timun inquired.

“Not since pon’farr and probably won’t happen until the next, and I’m very fine with it this way. It’s a loss of time, really.”

“Well, seems like you’ll fit right in for the Commission, eh. You’re thinking of applying, right?” Jabin took his time to answer.

“Yeah,” he finally muttered, letting silence settle again for a while. “I don’t have so much of a choice, do I? I mean. It’s some kind of calling from inside. I know I have talents, and I want- I  _ need _ to know what goes on behind those white walls.” Timun nodded.

“Just promise me you won’t become another person entirely. They say Joined Trills become more confident, but make sure to get that confidence up before the worm comes into play, hm? Or at least try to improve your timing!” – Jabin laughed silently.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Then you have my blessing.”

 

At last, they came back home. Timun introduced Savras to his bedroom further – she’d been snooping around a bit already, especially around the collection of sports cups and medals, and his medical diplomas, the frames of which had been hastily deposed in a corner before departure to DS9.

“I called my employer,” she informed him, “to take some more time off for the trial.”

“Did it go well?”

“Fine enough – they know I’m not a slacker, I got the days I wanted and the juridic coverage will apply so I won’t lose money over this.”

“That sounds about perfect then!” the Vulcan ended to get undressed for the night and threw himself on the bed. He opened his arms wide as to say “come here!” and Savras soon joined him.

“Did it go well with your brother?”

“I think he’ll do great. Deep down, I think he’s a lot smarter than me. Not as naive,” he specified. “If he’s careful to follow your advice, eh, he might even get further than  _ he _ thinks. I just hope he… That he won’t become too different.”

“It’s a common concern, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. He loves you, he loves his family and he cares for where he came from,” she said. “Some go to the Commission to become more than they used to be, and those are often the ones who cut the ties with a past they no longer wish to relate to. Jabin? I think he’s balanced enough to keep both his feet on the ground, walk his way and come back here with that confident pride. Of course, he’ll be a bit different, but what’s between you is strong enough to reunite the two of you.” Timun smiled and hugged her under the blanket.

“I’ll trust your word for it then,” he agreed and kissed her.

Those were a lot of changes to come, but he found he wasn’t scared. Quite in opposite, he was eager to see the both of them blooming into their future selves. His only worry was for Savras, and the trial to come. His own late experience with the Romulan Ale that got him into detention was enough of a fresh reminder of how maneuvering could quite easily change the course of justice.


	22. Day 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after, short chapter~

##  Day 17

 

Morning came on DS9 and Garak was gently coming back to the woken world when his body took better notice of the heat and vibrations arraying from an alien presence in  _ his _ bed. Eyes opening wide at once, the man’s mind rushed fast enough to make sense of the situation before confusion could show up. Melekor. First came the memory in which the tailor invited the other to come sleep over, and the tenderness wrought in his voice. Then came the memory of all that happened before.

Staring at the ceiling, suddenly still on his back, Garak contemplated the disaster of what he’d done.  _ Little brother _ , he’d called him.  _ Pirus _ . The word strangled him now, with guilt and an edge of irony. What now. What was going to happen? Melekor wasn’t up yet, and so the tailor opted to silently slide off the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom like a thief in his own flat.

He had a shower, combed his hair with care as usual, dressed, combed his hair again some more, adjusted his clothes to get rid of any unwelcome folds. Then, because he could feel a headache coming, he took a slight dose of treptacederine to relax. Only then, dignified and ready to face the world and its ongoing adversity, did he return to the main room as if this were nothing but another perfectly normal day on DS9 – as normal as could be.

It didn’t take long before Melekor’s shape started to move in the bed, hands rummaging the empty space where Garak no longer was. For the first time in a life of loneliness, the young man had finally learned what company truly meant in the peaceful safety and protection it provided. He’d slept well and woke up in the same natural feeling of comfort and softness that had imbued his dreams. But as he opened his eyes and retrieved a clearer sight, reality invaded him with the sight of Garak the tailor, whose expression conveyed nothing that could help Melekor navigate their common bond.

What had he done? he wondered as memories came back to him too. Had there really been consent?  _ What had he done? _ Why had he done it? Without a word, he tore himself from the bed and went to his clothes, shoving himself into them, too scared of the situation to look at Garak. Too angry at himself to even be able to speak. Like a frightened animal, he finally looked at the tailor, a silent apology lacing his eyes.

“You... I-” he wanted to ask him so many things, but he wasn’t sure he even  _ could _ ask those questions. He didn’t have the nerve to ask Garak if he had violated him, if he was a rapist now, if what he had done had hurt him, and so he looked away and into a wall, saying nothing more. Waiting, perhaps, for the other to tell him to fuck off.

“It’s fine,” Garak replied plainly instead, smiling with control of himself as to reassure the other. “I think we can simply agree to never talk about it and pretend it never happened, and there will be no consequences for either of us. It’s ...all for the best, both yours and mine,” he took a deeper breath. “Would you like some eggs for breakfast?” he suggested right away. Melekor swallowed the answer most unwillingly. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. It wasn’t satisfactory as an answer.

“Did I hurt you?” it felt like a lump was growing in his throat, making it hard to talk, “Please, I have to know what I’ve done to you, I need to know if I...” he strangled his voice and closed his eyes to try and bottle away his emotions.

“I assure you, you did not. I may be more worried of possible harm  _ I _ would have caused,” Garak admitted, feeling a little bad for not bringing it up first. “I… usually don’t do those things in such a… and it is certainly better to leave it at that. I appreciate you, and enough so to know when to step back and keep a distance,” he took another breath and walked to the replicator to order eggs for them both.

“I’m not hungry,” Melekor admitted (and Garak corrected his order accordingly). The young man’s voice sounded a bit dead as he sat at the table, “I wish I could forget everything. Just wipe the memories away.”

“My dear, while such things  _ are _ possible, I wouldn’t recommend it,” the other came to the table with his breakfast and touched his friend’s elbow. “We must learn to live with our mistakes and their consequences, however deeply unpleasant they are. And for this, we sometimes have to learn to catch the hand that is given, and trust that those who wish to help us will also be capable to fend for themselves. And we must grow stronger, always, to protect them. You won’t grow stronger if you run away from yourself. Maybe you simply have depended on your medicine for too long, maybe it is time to face your abilities… and believe me, I know how terrifying it can be…” he contemplated the recent events concerning his health, both physical and mental. If not for Julian, for the feelings they shared and the joy love gave him, he wouldn’t have come out of it so well already.

“This wouldn’t have happened if I had  _ remembered _ to take my medicine in time,” the half-breed snorted in annoyance, “I don’t  _ want _ to face my abilities. They make me a different person, and I don’t like that person, I don’t like what he’s capable of, how he gives in to impulses in a way  _ I _ never would, how he lets emotions drive him to the edge of destruction, how he’s addicted to bliss and satisfaction at  _ all costs _ – Garak, he’s a  _ monster _ . And you have to forgive me if I don’t want to hand over all control to that  _ creature _ .”

“You look at the problem from a strange perspective… You rightfully blame your mother for the horror she did to you, taking away an entire part of you, but you  _ destroy _ your  _ own _ brain with the same cruelty each time you press your hypospray against your skin. And at the same time, you  _ encouraged _ me to face my own… sensitivity,” he purposely chose not to use the word ability to see what Melekor would think of denial in his mouth – not that Melekor saw it as such. “There is something flawed in your logic, don’t you think?” Garak squinted and leaned forward like a curious but distrustful predator.

“No, there is not,” Melekor snapped back, glaring up at Garak, “Because the difference is that it is  _ my choice _ . If I could, I’d have that entire part of my brain removed; I hate it,” he teared up at the harshness he’d thrown at himself, and looked away in order to get rid of the emotion. “I was barely functional around most species before I got my medication. When groups became large, I couldn’t distinguish myself from the others – it made me so, so paranoid. I remember one time, I locked myself in a small, cramped room in an attempt to shield myself. Not only it didn’t work, the light was broken and I got disorientated and couldn’t find my way out. I took  _ five hours  _ after school had ended before someone found me.” He felt like an idiot for telling about that particular incident, since it was rather embarrassing, but it was what made it a good example.

“But not so long ago, I’ve seen you spasming on an infirmary bed, I’ve seen your heart stop, I’ve seen you practically dead ...because you hadn’t taken your medication. If you are going to continue down that road, you should at least consider something less ...lethal,” the tailor frowned. “You did feel different last night, but it felt somehow natural and true… I think I even liked it,” he focused back on his eggs. Melekor had been about to argue with Garak about several things, but the last part made him snap his mouth shut, and forced him to think. His shoulders slumped a bit.

“I’m not going to quit, just because you  _ liked it _ ,” he paraphrased the other, rather rudely so, “What good is you  _ liking it _ going to get me?” he lifted his head to glare at Garak, but his glare softened and he had to look away again. “I’m sorry,” his voice became quiet and Garak interrupted him.

“Don’t be sorry –  _ I’m _ sorry,” he shook his head in reckoning. “It was selfish of me to say such a thing.”

“No… yes,” Melekor tried to phrase himself, “I mean, it’s just... I liked it too. And that’s the problem. Perhaps I  _ am _ that other person, the one that has to deal with the mess left behind once the storm settles. I am the one who must think about the future, and what must become of me – that future was not supposed to include you. But now it does, because no matter how far away I’ll be, and who I end up in bed with, you will be the symbol of that act. And it’s my fault.”

“I suppose there is a before and an after for both of us,” Garak had to give him that. “Our feelings may not be the same but ...does it have to be bad? Can’t we… try to make it into something more positive?” He could barely believe he was having this conversation and saying those words. He did feel like a hypocrite. “It is my experience that when you think things are bad, they can get even worse, and they easily  _ do _ get worse. It takes a will to survive, but it is in our blood, in our genes. If we are here today, it is because we survived so far, and we must keep on surviving.” Melekor shook his head a little, drawing back into his chair, folding his arms over his chest and looking up at the ceiling.

“I can’t,” he said simply, looking back at the tailor, removing himself from his emotions, “I have obligations, and I’ll have even more obligations in the future. I can’t afford this, and I can’t afford keeping you in my mind and in my heart. We need distance between us, perhaps if I try hard enough, I’ll... I’ll forget you,” he looked down at the edge of the table. No. Garak had done too much for him so far, made him discover too many aspects of himself. No matter how hard he tried, he’d never forget him, and he knew it. The memories would be there, and the emotions too, “Why did you let me do it?” he asked in a strangled whisper. Garak contemplated the question for a while. He could have made up a thousand lies, including convincing ones, but Melekor wasn’t Julian.

“You already know,” he finally said. “Does it hurt this much to face it? You gave me your hand and I took it. I… wanted to know who I am, what I am. Those… abilities, as you say… I took your hand because I knew you trusted me and this is rare in a Cardassian. And I… I’m homesick.” He sighed. “I need you to go on, Melekor, and I know you can…” he laid his hand on the table, palm up and at reach while his eyes set to pierce through the other, “If I truly am a symbol to you, then embrace it. Let it become the mask you will lay on the face of those worthy of your feelings. Let them wear it. Let them be me. Let them become the mask, the symbol, and free yourself from me,” he spoke with faithfulness. “Wear them. Be me. Let it be the mask of your symbol.” But the words hit a wall. Melekor got up, dragging his fingertips over the edge of the table.

“I bet, that if I asked  _ you _ to get over Julian, you’d find it just as impossible as it will be for me to get over  _ you _ . And yet, I have no choice but to do just that; not because you ask me to, not because I’d rather not have you around, but because I don’t want to disgrace my family with the concept of  _ you _ ,” he was getting petty, and driving a thousand daggers into Garak was all the more satisfying. If he  _ hurt him _ enough, maybe he’d get hurtful back, and maybe that would be enough to kill off the softness he himself felt for the man. With someone else, it would even have worked, perhaps. But not with Garak.

“I know exactly what you are trying to do, and it is not going to work, Melekor,” the tailor thinned his eyes. “Your medicine, is part of what makes you act like this. I’ve seen enough persons taking testosterone to know how much it can impact their character and behavior,” he looked at the boy with weariness. “Cold, unempathetic, blunt, aggressive…” he listed. “It always took a period for them and the others around to adjust to this new chemical balance. You? It must be a lot harder for you to find the balance when your body is also producing female hormones at the same time,” he said with actual concern. “Have you thought about it? Now that you know about your insides, can you see that your treatment makes you into an artificially stereotypical male? And more importantly, is it what you wish to be?” he asked with caution. “I hold no judgement, it is only a question and the answer is yours,” he added, “but you might want to think about it when you run clean of those synthesis hormones too, as they can color your vision of yourself… Feel which feels the more like  _ you _ .” Why did he continue being kind like this!? Melekor shook in anger.

“What or who I am, is  _ none _ of your business,” he still stabbed at the other, but coldly so, “You want me to get over you, I’ll get over you. But don’t expect me to continue  _ caring _ about what you have to say, once I no longer care about  _ you _ ,” he got up and left in a hurried pace, as if fleeing the room would help him flee what he felt. Garak didn’t try to hold him back, and once out of the tailor’s quarters, Melekor became someone different. Or indifferent. Shut off and dead, he walked to his own quarters, where he locked himself in.

He picked one of the many PADDs he’d stashed on his table, and started reading it, soon delighted at the topic – it was a blueprint of a weapon. Some sort of rifle, and once he’d skimmed the overall specifications, he started replicating some of the pieces required to assemble it. A handful, of course, were restricted objects – he’d have to see Quark about them. But this made for a fine pre-occupation while he was killing off his feelings for the beautiful, sweet tailor.


	23. Day 18- 19 - 20 - 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time flies like an arrow and fruit flies like a banana~

##  Day 18

 

On the following day, Garak was about to leave his shop for lunch when the computer beeped, signaling an incoming call request, demanding encryption on his side.

“Not now, Rokat…” Garak rolled his eyes, feeling somewhat annoyed at the entire family for some reason. Yet, he locked the shop’s door and went to pick the call in the workshop, dialing the encryption key like one would daydreaming-ly drum fingers on the edge of a table. The person who appeared on screen wasn’t the Rokat he expected however. The surprise was shared as the other clearly hadn’t expected to see a familiar face – or at least, not this one.

“Glain Rokat?” Garak squinted at the young man. He’d grown up but he was still as effeminate as he used to be as a teen, and still had those striking green eyes. It was quite queer to see him now – he did share some common features with Melekor and their father, although he’d taken mostly from his mother’s side, especially the shape of the face.

“I suppose you no longer go by ‘Nilan’?” Glain squinted in return.

“That is correct. And what brings me the honor of this call?”

“I think you already know?” Glain frowned. “This is about ...that  _ person _ you informed my father about,” he whispered the word as if speaking it lower could make him exist less. “Father wants to recognize him, and so I would like to have a chance to speak with him, understand a bit better what sort of man is about to join our family. I am quite certain you understand the stakes.”

“Does your father know about this call?” Garak’s eyelids fell down a bit. “He doesn’t,” he read the answer on the other’s face. “I understand the stakes, but the only advice I can give you is to respect your father,  _ always _ , like a proper Cardassian. He is the last person you wish to disappoint.”

“Wait!” Glain straightened up, a bit of outrage showing in his shrill voice. “I only want to know what my brother is like! My father expressly asked me to accept him, and this is exactly what I am trying to do. Only, it is  _ quite _ complicated to welcome in a person whose name only summons the image of my  _ grandfather _ .” Garak nodded, but he wasn’t enough of an idiot to buy those candid motivations as the sole fuel driving Glain’s investigation. Oh, no…  There were reasons as to why he knew him so well.

“This is laudable, of course, but I will  _ not _ arrange a communication between the two of you without your father requiring it first.  _ He _ is the one I contacted, and I believe I have done your family enough of a favor already by providing this information. Wish him a good day on my behalf when you ask him,” he smiled, only slight cunning showing. “End transmission.”

That done, he set the computer to automatically reject any further incoming call for the rest of the day.

##  * * *

Later that same day on DS9, Melekor had assembled something that looked quite smart and elegant, but which was, of course, lacking the most vital parts. From what he understood, it was a Cardassian disruptor rifle, and from what he could observe, it was a very durable weapon, with an output rating of 4.7 megajoules, swift recharge and two settings. Primitive, regarding on perspective, but admirably practical and reliable – something Melekor appreciated.

He left the unliving shell of the rifle on the table as he left the room, carrying an empty PADD, on which he’d noted down the three components he still required. The cost, he expected, would probably be something significant – what he needed would likely have to be acquired directly from Cardassian hands: a discharge crystal, a Cardassian rapid nadion pulse, and a Cardassian energy cell.

Quark’s bar was less hectic for some reason; perhaps it was starting to get into the small hours; Melekor  _ did _ have a tendency to forget time when he was working, and by the way, it would explain why he was feeling dizzy.

“Quark,” he approached the bar counter, waving a couple of fingers at the barkeep, “I come to you in great need,” he winked a little, and put the PADD on the counter. “I’d like these components, preferably within two days. Think you could arrange it?” The Ferengi overlooked the PADD and set his eyes up on Melekor.

“Two days? Do you even realize what you’re asking me?” he gave the Cardassian a pained look. “Four or five has to be the best I can do, but it’s still going to cost you extra latinum for the rush service,” he warned, grabbing his own PADD to quickly evaluate the price of the merchandize, add relevant margins and present the total sum to the young man. “You’re not thinking of doing something stupid, are you?” he still cared to ask. “You were in quite a  _ state _ the other night…”

“I’m a tech junkie, Quark,” Melekor groaned annoyedly, leaning over the counter, “It’s a hobby, and I’m not actually going to use it,” he assured and provided his thumbprint on Quark’s scanner to transfer the latinum digitally. There was no way he’d bring that kind of latinum in the physical, “But thank you for your concern. Let me know when you have my merchandize, I’ll be sure to meet with you again, then.” He got up and stifled a yawn with his hand, then bid Quark farewell-and-goodnight before he stumbled back to his quarters, realized he’d forgotten his PADD with the Ferengi, and resigned to the fact that he’d never see it ever again.

Still, he crept into bed, ordered something warm for himself, along with lots of water, ate and drank like he was a robot designed for this purpose, and then laid, closed his eyes, and spent the entire night building phasers mentally instead of actually sleeping, with a brief break somewhere in the middle, as he realized he’d forgotten his medication, and had to get up and get it.

 

# 

##  Day 19

 

Once morning arrived, Melekor’s door chimed, and he knew it was his mother. Naked, he stumbled out of his bed, wrapped the sheets around his hips, and opened the doors for her without care.

“I can’t spar today, mother, I didn’t sleep,” she looked at him with disapproval, hands on her hips.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to – and it’s practically eleven, why are you naked?” she got in, saw the rifle on the table, and sent him a questioning gaze. He simply shrugged at her and went over to the table, moving his precious weapon aside.

“Have a seat,” he gesticulated, and Ywanna sat down.

“I’m leaving for Trill today,” she told him, “it was going to be a surprise, but I’m contemplating a purchase. A freighter vessel, to be precise – think about it, Melekor. Just you, me and the endless stretch of space. It would be a  _ perfect _ environment for you finally end your phelenaxinide addiction.”

“I don’t even want to be in the same room as you, even less so  _ live _ with you,” Melekor answered stiffly, not bothering to feel much of anything.

“And that is fine with me. I will buy the freighter  _ for you _ . You’ll be welcome to put together your own little crew to go with you, and I will be nowhere to disturb you,” she leaned back, and Melekor looked at her with disbelief, “All I ask is that you leave your father alone, Melekor.”

“Haha! I knew there was a catch!” Melekor slapped the table in triumph. His mother thinned her lips, “Even if I weren’t going to Cardassia for my father, I’d still go there,” he continued more boldly, “Yesterday morning, I spoke with the medical crew on this station – theoretically of course – and they told me- they told me the only ones who can restore my body to its true state, are the  _ Cardassians _ ,” he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m quitting the testosterone treatments, and I’m going to Cardassia to mend what you damaged. Suck on that,” he ended sharply. Ywanna looked like he’d slapped her in the face.

“You are going to destroy your father’s life,” she warned him, but her words had no effect on his determination.

“I can’t,” he told her in a guttural voice, “because you already did.”

“So what are you going to turn yourself into? Some sort of genderless  _ thing? _ ” Ywanna asked, growing agitated at her inferior and unusual position.

“Both, neither, maybe a woman, everything you don’t want me to be. That’s what I’ll be,” he sniped at her. “Now I want you to leave. Go to Trill. And if you decide to come back, it’d better be to stand trial in front of a Cardassian Chief Archon.”

“Melekor...”

“You  _ stole _ that name from my grandfather. I’d rather you didn’t use it at all. Now leave.”

She left, but Melekor found that he didn’t feel good about it at all. What had he done? These past couple of days had been  _ insane _ . He wanted to cry, but instead he delved into the tech manuals until his brain hurt and he  _ had  _ to interrupt himself with a meal. Following that meal, he watched himself in the window of his room. Whoever he was. Then he decided to put on makeup – of course he wasn’t as good as Garak, and it took him five attempts to get it right. Then he looked again. Half of him wanted to put on the dress, but the other half refused. Garak had made it. That dress was full of Garak’s hands. It would be obscene.

Instead, he went to the replicator, and asked for something different. A wig, with long, jet black hair, which he put on with some struggle. Finally, the reflection in the window was different, and he went to see himself in a proper mirror, admiring her as she appeared in front of him. He wanted to try different hairstyles with that hair, but he was very bad at everything that had to do with those things. If he weren’t trying his best to hate Garak, he would’ve gone and asked him for help. Instead, he went back to his tech manual and went over the next one, which was related to an eyepiece similar to the one Garak had gifted him.  _ Garak had been so pretty in it _ – he swatted the thought away, but went to get the piece from his bag, anyway, to put it on, and then admired himself in the mirror, wearing it. He looked expert, and as he returned to the table, hours turned into seemingly minutes as he started studying and perfecting his rifle, using the interface to aid him.

Finally, it was night again. He realized, because he was hungry and his head was riddled with syrup. That night, he physically couldn’t keep awake, and even though he  _ dreamed _ about weapons technology, he still got sleep.

He woke up because Quark was calling him to tell him that his things were due to arrive just three days later around lunch time. Much to Melekor’s relief, the channel was voice only; he’d managed to fall asleep in the couch, still wearing makeup and the wig. It took some doing to get out of those things, and the sonic shower that followed was incredibly cleansing. Three days. That was fine on him.

 

## 

##  Day 20

 

The halls of the Tribunal of Xeno-Contingent Affairs were arguably beautifully designed. A fresh, open view of the central garden was available from all the many courtrooms, as the circular building embraced the green gem like a jewelry clasp. Savras walked next to Timun, following the directions on her PADD to get to the right hall, where they had to go through separate entrances due to their respective role.

The courtroom was a semicircle, where an audience was allowed to sit in the back, the witnesses in the front, and the accused – Ywanna Kel – in the opposite end to the right, safely seated behind a forcefield. To the left were three chairs, one for the judge, one for the secretary, and the third for the supreme neutral witness, whose task was to be an objective observer of the trial itself. It started with a brief introduction of the accusations, moving through the proof, and calling Savras, who gave her version of the occasion from her seat. It was all noted, and looked in general bad for Ywanna, until her lawyer, who was standing behind her to the right, got the word.

“There is a lot of proof, but none that proves my client’s actual involvement in the crime. No station records seem to indicate that she would be the only species aboard capable of such an offense. She would seem to have a motive, but we have to keep in mind that the situation was tense on  _ all _ parties, and that the actual intrusion might not be related to the immediate situation described. Therefore, I urge the judge to carefully consider their decision on this matter.” He sat, and silence settled. The judge, who was an elderly man with snowy white hair, cracked his fingers and then stood.

“I declare the defendant not guilty, based on a lack of proof. All charges are dropped, and the case is closed,” he clapped his hands and bowed to the audience, “The defendant will be reimbursed. Due to the emotional basis behind this case, the prosecution will  _ not _ be charged for the time spent. Court is dismissed.”

Savras couldn’t believe it, and she still sat in her seat when the room was near empty. Eventually, the forcefield was shut off, and Ywanna left her cage, walking over to sit next to her.

“I do not blame you,” she told gently, “we were both  _ very  _ concerned for Melekor. It is quite possible you overreacted entirely on your own; it  _ has _ happened before. I forgive you,” she patted her leg, and Savras stole her leg back, getting up at last.

“I think we both know what really happened,” she scowled, having to back away not to knock Ywanna’s face in. Then Timun landed by their side like the half-Vulcan barbarian he was in that instant. He wasn’t supposed to get down the pit, especially not by jumping over the fence, but he didn’t care.

“Oh, hello,” he squinted at Ywanna. “It’s fascinating how we _all_ care for Melekor, each of us in our own very special way. You might have your little political levers here and there, but they don’t work in his heart. You can hurt Savras, but you can’t make him love you,” he grinned. “Keep on like this and he _will_ _hate you_.”

“Ah, Mister Lykes!” Ywanna turned around with a look of delight, ignoring his words completely, “My, my, both myself and Melekor have been worried sick about you – we thought something might have happened to you. I am  _ glad _ to see that you are in one piece still,” she smiled genuinely, then turned serious. “I’ll have you know your little discovery has caused quite some damage to Melekor. He’s helplessly confused, now, and doesn’t know whether he’s a female or a male – the exact situation I wanted to avoid with secrecy. But, I guess the truth always comes out in the end – that’s what I get for employing a Vulcan doctor to care for him.” Behind her, Savras frowned.

“What do you mean he’s confused?” she asked slowly. Ywanna laughed a little and shook her head.

“Maybe you should ask the doctor, he is the one who decided to convince  _ my son _ that he is in fact a daughter, or perhaps even something as absurd as an in-between kind of thing. Really, Lykes, you should have let him carry on with his life... this interference, it’s made him deeply unhappy. Now he wants to go to Cardassia  _ just _ to have his abnormal state restored,” she shook her head, “I hardly think they have any room for an intersexed, gender-confused half-breed, but that’s just me.”

“Oh, but  _ why _ would you weep when he is finally getting in touch with himself?” Timun smiled widely, showing no surprise and playing along although he was inwardly very puzzled as to what even was going on. “We may finally put a more definite end to his self-harming! Oh, but you didn’t study medicine of course,” he interrupted himself. “Too bad, really, because it’s something any freshman at the university gets to learn quite fast. Didn’t you know that intersexed and transgender persons whose gender identity, expression and corporal wholeness is repressed are more likely to self-harm, put their lives in danger, have a faltering survival instinct or commit suicide? I’ll make sure to send you my old classes notes on the matter,” he set a hand on her shoulder in a patronizing way, caring to raise up his mental defenses in the same instant. “However, you probably know that it is a crime in the Federation to repress any of the aforementioned gender-related aspects of one’s child, hm? You might be his mother, that does  _ not _ grant you  _ any _ right to control  _ the least _ aspect of his body and gender,” he glared at her. “As a doctor,  _ I should _ actually press charges against you for this, and this time it’ll be a lot harder for you to deny your guilt. Shall we meet in court again?” he flashed a brilliant smile. “Or maybe should we focus on giving Melekor what he desires?” Ywanna’s smile remained courteous, though a dangerous flicker reflected in her eye.

“You are  _ more _ than welcome to pursue this in court, Lykes dear, but before you do, I think you should know that his birth and operation all happened outside of Federal jurisdiction, by recommendations of the midwife present at that time. I’m afraid  _ I _ had no say in this matter. Now,” she slapped her hands together, “let us not hold unnecessary grudges! There is much to be done, and if you really think my son will be better off knowing these things, then I am all the more grateful – I really mean it. There is a very pleasant pub just down this street, what about going down there for a beer? My treat, of course.” Savras pouted behind her.

“Maybe... what do you think?” she looked at Timun.

“I don’t drink alcohol. But ...I suppose I could accept a soft drink and some appetizers,” he conceded.

Ywanna approved cheerfully and led the way. It was a strange group to be part of, but true, Ywanna was right. The pub she led them to  _ was _ most pleasant, set in the rotonde of a building’s corner. It was extremely cozy, with cushioned benches around the large windows and a wonderful view on the cityscape. There was a lot of green in this part of the administrative district of Tremnax, and the sight of the rocky hill further away brought a feeling of strength, life and energy to the scenery.

“Trill is  _ such  _ a lovely world,” Ywanna gesticulated a little towards a distant waterfall, and a triangle of birds flying past. Timun had gone to pass the orders, leaving the women alone for that moment. “I do not regret for a second raising my son on this planet, rather than Betazed. Ah, the adventures to be had, and the wildlife...” Ywanna smiled at Savras who didn’t smile back, “You must miss your daughter a lot. When do you get to see her next?”

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about this,” Savras’s expression hardened, and she looked insistently out the window.

“You should go see her soon,” Ywanna said and sat next to her, “these past days have made me realize how precious our time with our children is. To think that Melekor has grown into an independent man, with desires and destinations of his own. That I might have to learn to live with the fact that I must lose him in order to keep him,” Ywanna smiled a bit and looked at her own hand, fondling her dress’s skirt a bit, “I know full well I would not be welcome on Cardassia. I have made enemies there, more than he deserves to gain by proxy.” Savras shifted a little in her seat.

“He has been an adult for a  _ long _ time, and I’m sorry, but our situations are not at all the same.”

“Aren’t they?” the Betazoid asked with a head tilt, “We both have to stay away from the person we love the most, for their own good. How is that not the same?” Savras got up in an instant.

“Your child is  _ running _ from you, while mine doesn’t understand why  _ I _ am running from  _ her.  _ If you really want to turn this into a sob story about how you have to give up control over your  _ very adult son _ , I think you should talk to some family counselor, not  _ me _ , because  _ I  _ am happy for him.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned around to look as Timun came with their drinks – beers for the women and a spicy iced blend of fresh vegetables for him.

“I’m headed to Berage tomorrow,” Ywanna changed the topic, “I’m speculant on a freighter vessel there, but we’ll see how that goes. I’m sure Melekor would have loved to come along, but our mutual friend here,” she glanced at Timun as she took her beer, “has made him especially impossible lately. And rude, too,” she shuddered, “Why, he sounds a bit like  _ you _ at times.”

“Why, thank you,” Savras answered like it was an actual compliment, “that is very reassuring, and I hope it continues that way.”

“And so do I,” Timun cheered. The glasses tinkered together and it almost seemed like they were but a group of friends. Amidst the snide remarks, Ywanna cared to recommend the hotel she was staying at if the little couple wished to spend the night downtown before getting back on their respective ways. She was about to emphasize on the excellent room service when Savras cut short, deciding that the idea was excellent but that they’d find their own hotel. According to her PADD, The Two Sunwhales seemed like a decent establishment with affordable rooms. Ywanna didn’t fault them for the privacy and intimacy they no-doubt wished for, and they almost parted on good terms.

 

The room at the hotel was small and cozy; a circular room which was centered by the bed, branching off into three smaller rooms – bathroom, shower room and a balcony. Savras had just laid on the bed, checking her PADD for her upcoming appointments while Timun opted for a quick shower. It didn’t take long for Savras to realize that the environmental controls weren’t functioning: the light and atmospheric music couldn’t be switched off, so she had to call a repair technician for that.

“It isn’t  _ all  _ bad though, the music could have been worse,” she reckoned to Timun when he finally returned, head buried in the towel he was drying his hair with.

“It could have been worse,” the Vulcan somewhat echoed, talking a bit louder because all he could hear was the ruffling of the towel around his ears – and certainly not the door opening and the hotel maintenance person coming in. “But I’m not very fond of this kind of supposedly relaxing music. If I should be honest, I think I even prefer what music Melekor was listening when he wanted to relax – but not  _ as _ loud as he liked it. You know,  _ Sex Slave Symbiont, _ ” he chuckled at Savras as he finally got his head out of the towel. She seemed slightly embarrassed, so he shrugged. “I don’t think they’ve got this kind of music here.” Noticing she was actually looking behind him, he turned around, realizing they were no longer alone. “Oh, hi…” he greeted the young and very tidy repairman.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” the technician answered in a  smooth and melodic voice, “I’m just here to mend the system, just... pretend I’m not here,” he said and went over to the wall just next to the bathroom, and knelt down, dismantling the panel. And so the couple kept on with the discussion.

“I always found Melekor’s taste in music to be a bit...” Savras gesticulated, then shrugged, “offensive. To the ears, I don’t care about the lyrics. Or maybe it’s just that he listens to it so damn loud.” She rolled her eyes and rolled onto her stomach in the same movement, looking at Timun playfully, “You really  _ are _ a kinkster, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come on!” Timun rolled his eyes too, trying to suggest it wasn’t a topic worth embarrassing the poor repairman with. His gaze trailed on the man a bit, appreciating the looks of him and his neat tidiness. Pale skin, stark markings, dark hair slicked back in perfect order – almost Cardassian. “That music isn’t all about kink anyway,” he continued, “and I’m glad we both like it. I wonder what Cardassians will think of it, though,” he snickered and went to sit on the bed. “But I mostly wonder what the heck’s up with Ywanna. And what Melekor told her I supposedly would have discovered! I’m… disturbed, really. I’m going to have  _ quite _ a discussion with him when I get back to DS9. Oh, by the way,” he straightened up to address the repairman, “is it possible to have subspace communications from here, Mister…?”

“Devrail,” answered the repairman from halfway into the wall, “Enkilan Devrail,” he withdrew, smiling a little and rubbing his chin. “I believe subspace communications might be possible, but if it’s to DS9, you’ll have to make sure your recipient has clearance for the reception of such calls,” he smiled and turned around. “I went there once myself – awful place, birds everywhere. And snow,” he shuddered, “though from what I understand, it isn’t always like that,” his eyes thinned a little, “is it?”

“Only sometimes,” Savras chimed in from the bed, snickering to herself.

“I’ve heard of that time with the snow and… other more disturbing things,” Timun chuckled along. “I spent some three weeks there recently though, and it was overall quite well kept – or at least, I assume, because I spent most of my time in detention only to be released free of any charges. I can’t fault the security officers for being the better safe than sorry type, but that was awkward!” he drummed on his knees  a bit. “It all started when I got a half-Cardassian for roommate. Very loveable, but I had never seen a person with such a talent for winding up at the infirmary,” he shook his head and laid his back on the bed. Seeing the ceiling turned out unpleasant however so he sat up again. “But what business were you having on DS9, Mister Devrail?” he started to casually chat with the man. Jaden always told his son that he was much too talkative.

“The same as everyone else – wanted to see the wormhole,” Devrail gave a sorry smile, “and experience the Bajoran culture, I guess. My wife and I don’t get away often, and we like it comfortable and small when we do. It was  _ supposed _ to be comfortable and small, anyway,” he added with an eyeroll as he disappeared into the wall again. “Half-Cardassian friend, huh? I thought Cardassians kept to themselves – well, in matter of breeding, anyway. What’s the other half – I mean, it’s not racist to ask that, is it?” – Savras yawned a little and hugged a pillow; she was tired after the failed day, and more than willingly let Timun do all the socializing.

“Betazoid,” Timun couldn’t help but let through some annoyance at the thought. “I know they’re probably not  _ all _ awful persons, but I’ve been quite unlucky with the specimens I’ve met so far. I wouldn’t have thought the nicest of them all would be the half- _ Cardassian _ one. Though, to be honest, I think Melekor mostly got genes from his father in matter of looks. He’s got those very cute ridges around the eyes, and those intricate neckscales, ah…” he added in a more dreamy tone. “And have you met the tailor on the Promenade during your stay? Garak, a full-blooded Cardassian. Very fine craftsman, and delightful to converse with. A ...sharp man, to say the least,” he nodded, creeping a little closer to observe Devrail’s tools while the other was still head into the wall, muttering perplexedly to himself. When the man withdrew again, Timun wasn’t sure whether his cheeks were slightly blushed from the frustration he’d felt at the hardware or the unexpected closeness. The half-Vulcan couldn’t help but notice the man had wonderful deep blue eyes (both with and without his color spectrum corrective glasses).

“Uh,” Devrail caught up with the conversation, then nodded a little, “yeah, no, I was there for the Bajorans, not the Cardassians. If I had wanted them, I would’ve gone during the Occupation,” he joked weakly, then leaned his forehead against the rim of the wall. “The primary  _ and _ secondary systems seem to have been burnt out. It’s the third time this week, I can’t believe it,” he got up and brushed himself off a little, “I’ll have to go fetch some spare cable, I hope we still have enough – excuse me,” he slipped away and out through the doors. Savras shook her head a little.

“You really do love him, don’t you?” she asked Timun carefully, watching him.

“The repairman?” Timun blinked at her in confusion, then understood who she’d meant as she burst in laughter and had to bury the sound in a pillow to calm down – which took a good while. “ _ Uhm _ , you mean Melekor?” he cleared his throat. “Well, I… I guess I do, why do you ask?” he replied, as if her question really came from the blue.

“Because of the way you speak of him,” she finally managed to utter, “it’s so... so sweet, I guess. But now you have to tell me, you have hots for the repairman, too?” she winked at him, then burst down laughing again. The laughter was getting to be contagious.

“Well, I don’t know! He’s quite handsome too, but ah, well, he’s already taken and doesn’t seem like the type to love more than one heart at a time, and probably faithful in bed too,” he fiddled with one of the tools, flushing a little. “I’m not a slut, I’m expendable,” he added pointedly. “I came to the logical conclusion that, if I’m going to try and express my feelings as my mother always wanted me to, it would be counterproductive to repress a part of my being and generate frustration, which would, no-doubt, cloud my vision and lead to poorer self-control. Because I still need self-control, more so than anyone else,” he explained like the doctor he was.

“In other words,” Savras got up and hugged him from behind, just as the doors opened again, “You’re a slut,” she bit his earlobe, then realized the repairman had returned and blushed terribly, returning to her safe spot on the bed. Devrail looked at her only briefly, then at Timun, then at his tool in Timun’s hand.

“Don’t touch my things, please,” he asked, walking over to him and snatching his tool back, inspecting it closely, “Oh, good, you activated the level three setting,” he switched it off, rather pointedly, then sighed. “Anyway,” he slid in back into his technology hole, “you’re off to DS9 again, soon? Maybe you could deliver a message for me.”

“And who would that be for?” Timun asked, curious – and truly, he loved to be useful  _ and _ to get that feeling of adventure.

“Mersai, one of the station’s prylars. He asked to let him know when my baby was born, and I thought maybe you could let him know Ejdra is expecting twins – the Prophets were with us, it would seem. It’s almost enough to make a man religious,” he chuckled, “ _ almost _ .” Timun took good note of the names and smiled brightly.

“Twins, you’re getting? Well, congratulations! Is it going to be fine? You look quite young; is it going to be your first time raising kids? That’s a number of sleepless nights ahead,” he grinned, well aware of those realities.

“First time, yes,” Devrail’s voice was beaming happily, “I hope it’ll be fine. We live with Ejdra’s parents, so they will help us take care of things. They look forward to it almost as much as myself, especially her father – the man  _ loves _ babies. I’ll have to be careful, or he’ll steal mine from me entirely: once he gets to hold one, it’s difficult to make him let go.” He straightened up again, “Music off?” the computer complied, “Lights off”, it went dark, “Splendid! Lights on – I seem to have fixed the issue,” he started putting his tools back in his bag and got up, “Unless you’ve got something else in need of repair?”

“Well, well,” Timun got up too and gave an appreciative look to the panel, then to Devrail, “Unless you know how to mend broken hearts,” he half-jested, “or where’s the love switch and how to turn it off…” he shrugged. “Bodies have little secrets to me – I’m a doctor – but that’s one thing I haven’t figured out yet,” he chuckled although sadly. Devrail chuckled along, then shook his head and patted his bag.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be working as a repairman – I’d be making the big ones counseling half the world,” he shook his head a little, then bowed to Timun and Savras. “I hope you’ll find your stay enjoyable,” he wished them, before slinking away almost as discreetly as he’d arrived.

“You’re right,” Savras observed once the man was gone, “he  _ was _ really quite cute, wasn’t he?”

“Ah, yes, the sort you want to mess a bit and introduce to the less orderly aspects of his own personality,” Timun climbed on the bed and crawled over Savras. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t feel so sexual. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he added more softly. “I guess you’re right, I do love Melekor, however infuriating it is, but that doesn’t make me love you less,” he leaned for a kiss.

“Of course you didn’t hurt me, I’m just concerned. About you,” she stroked his cheekbones, “I’m not sure loving him is very healthy, and I say that as someone who loves him  _ as a friend _ . His mother,” she shook her head, “and now his desire to go to Cardassia – he’ll become a Cardassian there. Would he welcome you as a part of his life, under such circumstances?” The Vulcan laid down by her side, keeping an arm and a leg over her.

“I expect he won’t, no…” he said bitterly. “It’s doomed, I know, _I_ _know…_ but my heart doesn’t. It’s probably too fresh, the feelings are twirling inside me like dust in running water. Maybe it’ll all settle down at some point, maybe I’ll be able to…” He closed his eyes. “I don’t know, Savras. I wish it could be different, but I’ll have to be content with one-sided feelings. I don’t think he’ll ever feel for me what I feel for him, and I really can’t blame him. I’m not a Cardassian, I’m a complete mess, and… probably not his type. That’s how it is sometimes,” he gulped and looked down. He felt ridiculously sad and small. His throat was bulging inside and his eyes got wetter, their corners a subtler shade of copper green.

“We both might have to let him go, in the end,” she mumbled, almost in disbelief, “It won’t be the same without him – I’ll miss him too. But you... are you still going with him to Cardassia?” she wasn’t sure she wanted to lose Timun, too.

“Oh, I won’t stay there forever,” he loved himself closer against her. “I don’t think I’ll be so welcome for a longer time,” he raised his eyebrows then heaved a loud sigh. “Growing up in the Federation, it felt like boundaries didn’t exist. In the end, we still have to make choices.”

“We do,” Savras agreed, sighing into Timun’s hair and closing her eyes, “The Federation is our home. Cardassia might be Melekor’s, goodness knows he doesn’t fit in here like he wishes to – he wanted to join Starfleet too, you know,” she rubbed Timun’s arm again, “But he found that he likely wouldn’t be accepted, due to his Cardassian heritage. Starfleet  _ knows _ Cardassians have strong instincts for family, and if there’s one species they don’t trust, it’s them. Well, and the Romulans, I guess.”

“Ah, yes… it might be too early. After all, we have Klingons there now, so why not Cardassians or even Ferengi someday?” he smiled. “Though I’m not sure Ferengi would be interested in such jobs, but who knows. The world changes all the time…” He caressed her shoulder, drawing patterns with a finger. “But at least, even far apart, we can travel and visit each other. I hope we’ll be able to do that, or even call-” he interrupted himself. “Oh, talking of calling,” he rolled up and went to his bag, then to the console with his PADD, “I need to call Julian, to know if he has… results.” He quickly started the opening of an encrypted channel and passed the communication through the room’s computer to take advantage of the bigger screen it offered.

Some two minutes later, Savras had disappeared in the shower, and Julian Bashir appeared onscreen. Timun instantly felt sorry as he noticed the pyjamas and the sleepy face. The Vulcan blemished a bit in embarrassment, but color was to get back to him quickly.

“Mister Lykes,” Julian recognized him, rubbing his face, “I suppose you’re calling about the results. I won’t keep you waiting – it is as you thought. She  _ is _ yours.” Timun’s breath stilled and he couldn’t move much for several seconds, then finally relaxed and smiled.

“Thank you. Thank you Julian. It’s… a wonderful news,” he couldn’t help but laugh, finding himself somehow giddy. “I’m a father!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he scratched his scalp, “I hope you’ll get back to sleep easily.” He’d flushed and his smile was creeping up toward his pointed ears. “Thank you so much,” he said again. Julian smiled back drowsily.

“I’m glad it’s good news to you,” he told him, “and don’t worry about me, I was about to get up soon, anyway – Bajoran clock,” he added with a headshake, “How are things going on your end? Ywanna Kel left the station just recently, it seemed she was in a hurry, I was worried something might have happened to you.”

“She had to attend the trial – Savras pressed charges against her for empathic manipulation. It seems that despite all the medical scans nurse Jabara provided as evidence, the Trillian tribunal found there was not enough proof indicating Ywanna as the offender,” Timun sighed. “They didn’t try hard, she has contacts and Savras is a ‘ _ conspiracy theorist _ ...’ However, Ywanna did say something quite interesting, and maybe you know why she thinks  _ I _ found out that Melekor would appear to be intersexed?” he inquired, parted between amusement and suspicion. Julian blinked a couple of times, then blushed a bit, an uneasy smile on his lips.

“I’m sorry about that,” he finally told him, “Mister Kel thought that, since you had already fallen out of favour with her, he’d just pin this on you as well, as to not… involve myself, I guess,” he cleared his throat. “I was opposed to it,” he clarified, then got serious, “I hate to say this, but I feel like he’s using you. He said some things that I wish I hadn’t heard.” Julian seemed conflicted, then resigned a little, “He said it’s not his fault you like him. That he didn’t ask for it – oh, I don’t know what to think about it. Cardassians  _ do  _ have their own ways of showing affection – but he didn’t grow up in their culture. I believe what is wrong with him has another source, and in all honesty, that makes him even less reliable than a Cardassian who is also culturally so.”

“I see… I suppose that’s not all too surprising, and in a certain alignment with my conclusions so far. I guess I will have to reset the limits with him when I come back.” He closed his eyes just a second, “Is he being such an complete idiot as to believe I am  _ not _ coming back?” he asked. It was a possibility he had considered.

“Maybe, possibly, he seemed sad at the thought of you. As if you were indeed never coming back,” Julian stifled a yawn, then looked next to the screen. “I’d love to continue chatting with you, Lykes, but I have to get a sonic shower and go to work.”

“Of course,” Timun acknowledged. “Have a nice day, Doctor,” he nodded and ended the communication. He sat thoughtfully for a moment while disconnecting his PADD, then the grin was back, wide and large. He got up slowly but then threw himself on the bed and buried his face in a pillow so he could scream his joy while rolling over the mattress. He was a father! Who cared what blood linked him to the mother? He was the father of the most delightful child he’d ever known!

“Good news, I take it?” Savras appeared, coming out of the shower a bit hurriedly, towels around her hips and hair. He looked at her from his pillow, quite like a kid too excited about his mischiefs to keep them secret.

“I’m a father, Savras! I’m  _ her _ father!” he slammed his head on the mattress in excitement, squealing some more into the pillow – Savras had a bit of a concern about Timun slamming his head into things like that, and was grateful that the bed was soft.

“Really?!” she burst into a grin, “We’ll have to celebrate this!” she tugged at his arm, “Let’s go drink somewhere, I bet there’s some nice place around here somewhere.”

“Guardians, yes!” Timun rolled and bounced up on his feet, almost dragging Savras to the door before realizing she was only dressed in towels. “Ha! Yes, maybe put something on first!” he laughed joyfully. “If I weren’t allergic to alcohol I’d drink some to the occasion!” he clapped his hands from excitation.

“You can still  _ drink _ a number of liquids, just not alcohol,” she pointed out to him and before long they were headed down the nearest cave Timun could identify.

 

Darkness had claimed the streets by the time they arrived, and it got darker yet as they entered the building that housed the underground spot; it looked like most of the other houses there, albeit a little older than the rest, which was reflected by the architecture. It was nice, but carried a sort of regal, smooth and slate feeling that belonged to a time around two centuries ago. Still, Savras appreciated the sturdiness of these buildings, and as they entered the elevator, they were pleasantly surprised to see that it had been upgraded to the current standard of turbolifts – and this one went far, far underground. As it halted and opened, it let them out into a glum but cozy corridor, which merged seamlessly with the walls of the natural caves that expanded forwards. Music was distantly heard through the taciturn twists of the rocky path. “Smells good,” Savras noted with a deep inhalation – damp but flowery, the scent was distinctly sweet but still subtle enough not to be bothersome. The perfume was a lot more delicate than what Timun was used to in this kind of place, but he wasn’t about to complain.

They settled in a balcony, overlooking the pit down which people danced on crude music with crude lyrics. There was a pond, although the access was restricted by security staff, probably to avoid accidents. Some persons were playing in the milky water, others seemed to have engaged in less innocent activities, and nobody seemed to care. This wasn’t the side of Trill the rest of the Federation would ever know about.

In such a setting, the conversation didn’t fail to end up being halfway between family and politics. While Timun was rather confident for Dziana’s future, he was still troubled for Jabin.

“I expect he’ll have to be stricter with himself if he’s eligible for Joining, because of our father. I wonder what the Commission would think of his undergoing pon’farr, though…” he mused. “At least, unlike me, he seems more capable of enduring it through meditation – he tried, the first time, and it almost worked. Fortunately, my mother had secured a good backup plan this time,” he seemed to remember something suddenly and exclaimed a “Oh, yeah, he  _ has _ a girlfriend! A Vulcan-Trill girl his age. They never see each other, though, it’s more of a long distance relationship. Quite… more alike to friendship,” he nodded.

“Really?!” Savras burst out in complete shock, “But he seems so shy! How did he accomplish that?” she asked, then shook her head at herself, “Guards’, I shouldn’t be asking such questions, it  _ is _ your wee lil brother we’re talking about, and I honestly  _ don’t _ want to think of the nitty-gritty details of things there.” Timun barked in laughter, far too amused.

“He didn’t do anything, really!” he had to tell. “My mother just joined a Vulcan network here on Trill, and found a couple with a girl of Jabin’s age – there were several candidates, really, but to make the long story short, it was an arranged union in a more Vulcan tradition. Poor Jabin got rejected a number of times because of my mother being an exile,” he sighed. “She ended up not mentioning it anymore. It was quite complicated to hide it, but in the end we did get a match with a more open-minded Vulcan-Trill couple of scientists. So they do have that in common and it’s nice for them to have a friend to relate to,” he smiled. “They’re really cute together, nerdy-cute.”

“That is so sweet, and so fortunate that they like each other,” acknowledged Savras with a nod. She had to admit that she wasn’t sure she entirely understood Vulcan traditions on this point, but if it worked for Jabin, then that was good enough to her. “Melekor has one of those arranged relationships too,” she told further, leaning a bit forwards, “Betazoid tradition – he’s never met her, nor does he want to. His mother has been  _ pestering him _ for years now, though I think she’s secretly satisfied with the lack of competition,” she shook her head a little and leaned back, “I’ll never understand the point of telepathically joining  _ infants _ to one another.”

“For us Vulcans it’s a necessity,” Timun reckoned. “It is very… embarrassing to come to the age of puberty and get into this life-threatening situation, with the surest option for survival requiring to have sex. It  _ is _ better to share this experience with someone willing and preferably of your age, though I know we also have adults on Vulcan who are trained to perform this duty with teenagers who undergo an early pon’farr and whose mate has gone missing for a reason or another. I think there are also techniques to try to delay pon’farr to a later age – I think most Vulcans get it in their thirties or so, but I was exiled before I could learn much about that anyway. Unfortunately that’s also the reason why my mother couldn’t find a mate for me. She wanted to afford the help of one of those adult guides,” he revealed. “My father said he’d take care of it, but instead of paying for costly services, he figured he could make money instead…” he told more dryly.

“The Betazoids,” Savras nodded, then added, “your mother told me. She thought you didn’t know about the money part, and she didn’t want me to tell you about that…” she looked down at the table.

“Two men, a woman, and that thirteen year-old me,” he gritted his teeth. “I was too far to care on the moment, but it did give me a lot to think of. I still don’t know what to think of the fact that on one hand, they saved my life, and on the other, they must have achieved some kind of illegal fantasy. It’s all… very questionable. I believe my mother kept a low profile on the topic not because she wanted to avoid blaming my father, but to protect me until I was old enough to think back about it with a bit more wits. For that, I’m grateful. She limited the damage…” He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, well, let’s not talk about that ...disgusting… topic. I’m a father tonight. And hopefully, my next pon’farr won’t be a disaster,” he tried to smile. “I got two of them right so far, I can make it three.”

“When is it?” asked Savras, “Your next pon’farr. It must be soon, considering your daughter’s age, right?” she frowned, tried to count, messed it up and shook her head to herself. Timun snickered at her attempt – he didn’t need to meld to see what she was thinking.

“It’s every seven years – the pon’farr in which Dzi was conceived is out of the biological clock – but yes, it should happen somewhere during the next months. It’s not a very accurate clock, that’s why I… wanted to be away from my mother, I guess,” he glanced right and left. “Well, if we get the chance to spend it together, it would certainly be interesting, though I have to admit I can be quite energetic. When the symptoms start, I have three days to get a mate before the condition gets lethal. The more time passes, the more insane we become. I say  _ insane _ ,” he cared to specify. “I doubt I’ll ever manage to meditate it through, and when it comes to fighting, what with me being a martial artist… I don’t want to murder anyone, so sex really is the only option,” he sighed.

“So that’s why you were really going to Cardassia?” she asked in utter disbelief and he shook his head negatively, “Or did you hope to find someone on the station while you were waiting? I... could probably help you, but I’m not sure how insane you mean by  _ insane _ . And I prefer being in control.”

“I’m not sure even I can describe it, it’s… some sort of trance?” Timun said more shyly because the topic was still embarrassing. “It can be quite communicative, Vulcans  _ can _ make another humanoid enter pon’farr and that is something I really wish to avoid because ...it’s questionable. So, yes, I was really planning to find one or more suitable mates on DS9,” he admitted. “And I did,” he looked down the Tarkalean tea he’d ordered for himself. “Melekor accepted, but then he  _ had _ to be stupid and rude and dismissive of my feelings and I left, so now? I no longer know. He’s such an idiot that he seems to think I’m not coming back ever, and that it’s  _ fine _ to use my name to pretend  _ I _ found out he’s intersexed to some extent so not to draw Ywanna’s ire upon Julian. Oh, Guardians, do I hate this boy’s daftness! As soon as he takes his meds he become that cold, arrogant, obnoxious little prick – and I can ensure you that dick he turns into is nowhere close to be as smooth as his own penis, ugh!” he ranted, words coming faster and faster until Timun realized how rude he was getting and hid his face in his hands. “I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“I didn’t need to know that last detail,” Savras told as she blushed profoundly and lifted her cup of Raktajino to her lips, “But you mean to say that he’s  _ actually intersexed? _ I had no idea,” she frowned, then shook her head again, “This is so weird...” she sipped her coffee, very disturbed by all of these things, then she grimaced. “I could have told you that pursuing any sort of relationship with him is doomed to fail. He doesn’t fall in love, he’s said so himself, and he views people who do as slightly inferior,” she rolled her eyes, “I think it’s because he got burnt once,” speaking of getting burnt, that coffee was scalding, and she had to put it down again, “But you  _ are _ planning to go back to DS9? You’ll be able to ask him then,” she wished he wouldn’t, but they had already agreed that multiple partners were alright. Maybe she was just a little possessive because Timun was so submissive; she wasn’t sure actually. Timun nervously rubbed the side of his cup with his thumbs.

“When we met, he asked me to become his group,” he said. “We were supposed to support each other, protect each other… He needs protection, and maybe he’s going to need a doctor too. I don’t know. Either way, I need to clarify things, be it to continue or get a closure,” he closed his eyes a moment to hide his emotions, as they were too strong to his own liking. “And I still want to go to Cardassia. I want to know what those Cardassians are like, what part of them is reflected in Melekor and what isn’t. I want to know who they are, how they function as a society and as individuals,” he reopened eyes filled with a brighter fire.

“He asked the same of me – being his group, I mean. And I did one hell of a job for as long as we served together, aside from the Klingon incident,” she winced a little, “But that was just because he didn’t listen to me. He doesn’t trust people,” she added with a lot of sadness. “I don’t think he’ll ever trust anyone, and that’s really rather tragic. He’s constantly worried people will turn against him, hurt him, or that they have secret negative thoughts about him. He’s very frail, isn’t he? I can’t blame you for wanting to protect him, but I have to say, there are times when I wonder if it’s not just an act, an instinct to play on those emotions in the rest of us, for his own survival. I adore him, that’s what makes the idea so... unsettling. He’s like a little brother to me, and I subconsciously treat him like such, even though I logically know he would not do for me what I do for him.”

“Sometimes we have to do for others what they wouldn’t do for us in order to maintain the balance.” Timun smiled weakly. “There is no possible progress when we don’t help those who can’t help us back. Melekor might be but a drop in society, and ...about to leave the Federation if he does manage to integrate on Cardassia, But I think this little drop of water could still bring a fertile life. Maybe  _ he _ wouldn’t do what we’ve done, but maybe others around him will prove more thankful someday. Maybe not to us, not directly, but who knows? Anything can happen, and we can never care too much, can we?”

“That is a very sweet, if naive, way to think of it,” reckoned Savras, reaching out to hold Timun’s hand, “If you are going to Cardassia with him, I’m pretty sure you’re the one who will need his protection. Are you really sure he’ll extend that to you? What might happen if he won’t?”

“I am a Federation citizen, and while I don’t count on just that to back me, I don’t believe there are too many reasons why things should turn too sour for me. Of course, I’ll have to be careful and look more deeply into the exact configuration of the situation before departure – Melekor is an illegitimate child after all, and maybe his family won’t be so welcoming. Maybe they would want to get rid of him, I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing I hope will help to better evaluate the risks,” he acknowledged. Savras made a nondescript sound, then leaned back in her chair, nodding a little.

“There’s a significant risk, I guess. But, if you find out this is the case, what do you really hope to be able to do about it? Don’t get me wrong – if you want to go to Cardassia, go to Cardassia! I just would prefer if you  _ came back _ , afterwards. Melekor too,” she added with a sigh. He took her hand and kissed it gently.

“You know what? I quite enjoy being alive, and I’d love for it to last! I’ve got a delicious girlfriend, a wonderful daughter, and plans to join Starfleet… Can’t really enjoy all that if I’m dead, so I promise, both you and myself, that I  _ will _ come back,” he grinned.

“Good,” Savras leaned forwards, giving him a half-serious smile, “I’ll make sure to hold you to it. And you don’t want to cross me.”

“Oh, certainly not indeed, not after those lessons I gave you! You’re a fast learner,” he winked.

 

## 

##  Day 21

 

When he came back home, only Nysar was there. Timun’s smile was unmistakable and set a doubt to the woman – could it be that Jaden was Dziana’s father after all?

“Mom!” her son exclaimed, hurrying to hug her tight. “You’ll never believe!”

“Really?” she frowned in confusion.

“You’ll never believe  _ how proud _ I feel! I’m her father!” he squeezed her, making it about hard for her to breath.

“That’s not a reaction I expected but it’s good enough for me,” she fought to take her distance and recover the full capacity of her lungs. “Are you… happy?”

“How could I not!? Are you not proud of her too?” he looked at her with bright eyes behind his glasses. She nodded ever so slightly, in slow motion too.

“I guess so…”

“Well then that’s all matters! I want to tell her when she’s coming back. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve already planned everything. I’m going to tell her and I’ll take her on a little trip for just one week; she’ll love it!”

“Wait a second, Timun Lykes!” Nysar had to interrupt him. “She has school.”

“One week of absence won’t do any damage, and I’ll give her the lessons, don’t worry. I told you, I’ve thought about it all,” Timun assured. “And really, you’ve been her mother for almost nine years; is it too much to ask to let me be the father for one week? She’ll call you before bed if you want.” The woman sighed.

“And  _ where _ do you plan on taking her to?”

“That’s for her to decide. Maybe we’ll tour around some aerospatial centers and museums,” he smiled.

“Well, fine… And what about Jabin? I don’t want anything to change for him, but… I wouldn’t want him to feel betrayed if we leave him out of this,” she admitted. “He might still find out someday.”

“I thought so too. I think he’s old enough to understand… He’s my little brother… I can’t keep such a secret from him,” Timun pinched his lips.

“All we did was to save your life…”

“I know, mom… I know,” he hugged her more gently. “I know…”

The dinner that night was a bit more tense than usual. Everybody could feel that something had to be said, but Nysar and Timun were waiting for the main course to be over – they’d agreed to reach the topic before having dessert, with the idea that no matter what happened, nobody would shun Andorian ice cream.

As the dishes were put away and the family settled in the living room, Timun and Nysar started the tale of that one time when the two of them went to the Kiblan desert and ended up stuck there. But this time, it was the full story. The real story. The children listened quietly. Dziana was intrigued as to where it would lead. Jabin guessed the ending way before it arrived but didn’t spoil it.

“Does that mean I’m an uncle?” he asked at the end.

“How would that feel?” Timun asked.

“Nice… but I think I prefer being a brother,” Jabin answered truthfully.

“Then you’re a brother,” his elder smiled simply.

“Dad is not my daddy?” Dziana asked, a little confused.

“Do you see him like your daddy?” Nysar asked, because she couldn’t really say Jaden was the father who raised her when he was mostly absent.

“It’s what it says on my file at school, it says my father is Jaden Mynx,” the girl answered.

“I’m happy to see you as my daughter, Dzi,” Timun blushed a little. “I’ve raised both you and Jabin with mom, but… I’ve always known I might be your father and, in a way, I think I’ve always cared for you in a way that wasn’t just brotherly. Of course, I can be anything you want me to be. I love you and that’s all that matters in the end,” he trembled a bit.

“You’re my brother but you’re also my father,” she repeated. “It’s a bit weird, but not that much, because you’re  _ so old _ ,” she pointed. “You’re  _ very, very old _ for a brother. It makes more sense that you are my father so I will accept you as such,” she decided and everybody laughed.

Later, as they ate some of the bluest ice cream of the galaxy, Timun expanded on his projects and the idea to take Dziana on a little trip.

“That means I would miss school?” she asked with round eyes. “Is that  _ allowed!? _ ”

“I’ll allow it. I’m a doctor, and if I prescribe you vacations, then the school cannot oppose it,” Timun answered smugly.

“Oh. Well then that is good,” Dziana nodded. “Where are we going?”

“You are the one to decide.”

“Then I want to go with you on DS9, and travel on Miss Savras’s ship,” she decided. “Will she be there?”

“Probably! She works on it after all!” he smiled. He looked at his mother, as to ask if she approved.

“You send her back to me after  _ one _ week, and you stay  _ away _ from detention,” she glared at him.

“I promise it will be  _ all _ fine. We’ll be very quiet and nothing wrong will happen,” he ensured. She had her doubts but decided to trust him.


	24. Day 23 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melekor's brother shows up on DS9...

##  Day 23

 

The young archivist had traveled a lot around the Union, especially during the past two years. Three days here, a week there; there was always something he could help with on this or that military base, and he found great pleasure in visiting all sorts of worlds, especially when he could arrange to travel with Iltarel. But this time, Iltarel Jarad would have to satisfy himself with the tale of Glain’s greatest adventure yet, when his friend would return. The young Cardassian wasn’t too eager at that prospect. Knowing him, Iltarel would stare at him and croak “Glain Rokat, you are an idiot.”

This trip was the most daring act Glain had ever pulled, and he did not like it one bit. He’d told his father he was due to leave for some days to lend a hand to a larger archiving project for which the team was getting short on time to meet its deadline – a likely enough excuse. To his superior, he said he needed to take a break to take care of his family, which was actually quite close to the truth. He’d required help from his Barvonok lover, Siram – his oldest and most regular relation since teen years. The financial clerk had been swift and efficient in pulling strings to arrange a place for him aboard the first ship headed to DS9 – the place from which Melekor Kel’s visum had been requested, and the place where  _ Garak _ had been exiled. The rascal even seemed to own a tailor shop there.

 

The Lissepian cargo was far from being a most comfortable transport. Glain found the ship to lack elegance, refinement and, really, it  _ could _ have been more orderly. The way the aliens stored their goods was offensive – crates weren’t perfectly adjusted, items weren’t sorted in any logical order within a same customer bundle, and the various lots themselves seemed to be disposed without much of a classification system. In order not to make himself too upset, the young man spent most of the trip in his assigned quarters, only getting out to try to find some food, which he was made to pay at a ridiculously high price.

 

At last, they made it to the station, and Glain could finally retrieve a bit of freedom. He was starving. When he set foot in the cargo bay, light stabbed his eyes and he felt dizzied for a few second. The air was a lot colder than he’d expected for a Cardassian space station, and he pressed himself to the Promenade in hope to get warmer quickly enough. He crossed a Ferengi on his way, who very rudely stared at him as if he’d never seen a Cardassian before, and this was only the beginning of a very unwelcoming arrival.

The station was incredibly full of Bajorans, and they were looking at him with  _ so much _ distrust and spite – some were even mocking, which was beyond outrageous. Of course, Glain was also looking at them with distrust, but it was quite normal as he knew himself vastly outnumbered. He was still trying to find a place where to get some food when three Bajoran men stood in his way like a wall and cornered him within an instant.

“You seem like you’re looking for something, Cardassian?” one said.

“Troubles, maybe?” a second suggested. Glain blinked in confusion, wondering if he got that word wrong. But no, he didn’t.

“That’s a rude insinuation,” he replied without thinking, speaking in their language  _ almost  _ as fluently as if he’d had a universal translator, although he did have an obvious Cardassian accent.

“Listen to that spoonhead trying to speak our tongue,” the man who spoke second stepped forth at once, pressing the Cardassian back against the wall. “Did you say ‘rude’? You are calling us  _ rude _ ?”

“P-Please! Keep your distance!” Glain tried to squirm away from the aggressive Bajoran. A twist of acid in his guts was doing a good job at bringing forth similar memories earned during Institute years, and yet, the young man couldn’t help but feel bewildered by the bluntness and primitivity of their provocations. Keelani was right. Bajorans truly were heartless brutes with no other desire than to destroy Cardassians and all they cherished.

“Is there a problem here?” came yet another voice, which was that of a security officer. For a second, Glain thought he was going to be the one taken to detention, but thankfully, the woman, despite being Bajoran too, seemed to respect her uniform enough to tell the men to leave. “What started this argument?” she asked formally. Glain looked at her, wondering if he  _ really _ had to explain.

“The fact that I am Cardassian seemed to matter to them,” he answered. “As for myself, I was trying to find the way to a restaurant.”

“If it’s the Klingon restaurant-”

“Oh, come on,” Glain interrupted immediately. “I mean a  _ respectable  _ establishment. Surely there must be one?” Because she glared at him he specified, “Not that I am xenophobic towards Klingons, no, but one can’t really qualify the food they serve as cuisine, and the entire quadrant knows their restaurants are only an institutionalized attempt of the Federation to be inclusive of their ‘culture’ to preserve the fragile ties she holds with their ...Empire,” he favored using the politically-correct term.

“The Replimat is in this direction then,” she pointed coldly. “A bit after the stairs you can see there.”

“Thank you for this most helpful information,” he paid her a formal nod as goodbye, and set back on his way. He was a bit disappointed to find that there was a bit of a queue, but this gave him a little time to observe the place. Not for too long however. His gaze very quickly set on the only Cardassian in the room. He didn’t seem to have seen Glain yet, and the archivist’s instant reflex was to try and hide behind the other persons in the queue.  _ What to do!? _ He felt cornered. Was this his brother? Was this Melekor? He kept on glancing at him, trying to make out his facial features from an angle that wasn’t the most suitable. Should he talk to him? – He’d come for this very reason, hadn’t he? Oh, he hadn’t expected to run into him like this, so soon. If this was Melekor, he  _ would _ judge him on his choice of food. What should Glain order? Cardassian food, certainly, but which sort? It had to be something not too appealing maybe, so not to fuel his desire to come to Cardassia, but it also had to be something Glain could eat gracefully so to impress with stark Cardassian mannerism.

Before he knew, he stood in front of the replicator, staring at it blankly. “One serving of stuffed rekel breast,” he uttered – the recipe didn’t exist for some insane reason, and Glain had to hurriedly swipe through the menu of Cardassian food to identify something to order. Stews were out of question, they could lead to splatter and stains; mashes weren’t dignified enough, and why were there so little recipes of eggs? Surely, Bajorans swept them out of the files in pure spite.

As the person behind him was starting to grunt in impatience, Glain set for mer’hal breadsticks, soft-boiled ganju eggs and yamok sauce. Only when it materialized did he realize he’d ordered something appetizing, not most graceful to eat and involving sauce and a risk of stain. He was mortified but took his plate and the cup of Redleaf tea he’d ordered along before joining the Cardassian’s table.

“May I sit here?” he asked. “...Melekor Kel?” he dared give the name a try.

“N-” Melekor interrupted himself at the sound of his name, and only then did he finally look up from his reading- “oh. Certainly,” he placed the PADD down (where nearly everyone could see the rather detailed blueprints of a weapon), and smiled a little. He hadn’t expected to have his merchandize delivered in person, by someone, but by the off chance that this wasn’t what he thought it was, he refrained from saying that, instead asking, “What can I do for you?”

“Stay away from Cardassia,” Glain answered the question blankly, eyeing at the PADD, then back up at what was supposed to be his step-brother. They  _ did _ share some similar features, and it was quite disturbing.  Melekor didn’t flinch, but instead cared to shut off his PADD before more incriminating snooping could take place. He studied the young man in front of him – he couldn’t be much older than twenty by the youthful looks of him.

“You are my brother,” he realized with so much softness in his voice, that he nearly couldn’t stand it himself. It was especially unfortunate that the young man had already made up his mind about what he thought of Melekor’s presence in his life. The engineer took one of his muffins and started peeling off the paper, “I’m afraid I  _ can’t _ stay away from Cardassia, that option no longer exists,” he glanced at the other through the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to be an inconvenience to any of you.”

“You see me equally sorry as you are,” Glain pulled a gentler tone to his words. “I’ve often wished for a sibling, but this situation is most unfortunate…” He reached for a pocket of his bag and took his PADD, turning it on quickly to access files as he spoke. “However, I thought you might want to see what your father looks like, and I cared to bring some photos for you to see. Some older, some more recent,” he smiled as he handed the PADD over. He’d selected happy photos of the ideal Cardassian family his parents had been as well as some illustrating both Nall’s and his own socio-professional reussite. The last ones however were much sadder. Nall thinned and his hair whitened unnaturally fast on them. Looking at them, Glain was reminded that he too had lost some weight, though the slimness didn’t make him any less baby-faced. But Melekor didn’t look at the photos although he accepted the PADD. He simply set it on top of his own, not diverting his eyes from the other.

“What’s your name, Brother?” he asked gently instead.

“Shh, not so loud,” Glain flailed his fingers near his chin as if it could absorb the sound of the other’s voice and prevent anyone from hearing the word binding them. “Officially, we have no such relation,” he reminded him. “But I’d rather you call me Rokat,” he opted to say, in hope it would alleviate the risk of being called  _ Brother _ again. “And you don’t have to act ...so fond. It’s a bit inappropriate.” He felt that his rebellious curl had escaped from behind his ear and hurried to put it back in place before dipping one of his breadsticks in egg and sauce. This meeting was so different from what he’d imagined. He thought he’d stare coldly at that ‘Melekor’ and look at his ugly face and barely existing scales, but Glain now found himself avoiding to look at him, because the bastard looked properly Cardassian. And he was cute and handsome. Why did he have to be pleasant like this?

“Why did you have to be a boy, really…” he muttered, then lifted his gaze to address his pained anger to the black eyes. “The nerve of your mother to do this to my father, to rob him of his offspring, steal my grandfather’s name – my grandfather  _ hated _ your mother,” he cared to specify, “And she had to make you a boy child,” he grunted as if she were responsible for the baby’s sex. “If  _ only _ you’d been a girl, that would have been somewhat preferable, but now… Do you understand we’re  _ all _ doomed if you come? My father’s reputation will be tainted,  _ I _ will be forced to disassociate from him and no woman will ever accept to enjoin with me. Both he and I will lose absolutely everything we have, including each other!” his voice turned a bit shrill. “I’m already losing my mother… Please, don’t take my father away from me. He’s the only one left for me.”

Melekor wasn’t sure how to react, but he was very sure he could feel his brother’s pain, the desperation that had brought him all the way to DS9. It caused his own eyes to blur, and his throat to become thick and ragged. He looked at his hands, the table, his meal, then his brother’s meal, and the distance between them. Where should he start off? He felt like he was wilting in his seat.

“I’m not-” he managed with significant difficulty- “a boy,” he clarified as he leaned back in his seat and laid his hands in his lap. “I only found out some days ago – she... altered me when I was an infant,” he looked at his brother who seemed properly horrified, “I never wanted to pursue getting officially accepted as your father’s child, all I wanted was to meet him just once in my life. To try and find a function in Cardassian society, as an orphan if I had to – there’s no meaning for me here. With what I am, I have no purpose.” Somewhere through that revelation, Glain’s mind had stopped. Processes halted. Protocols engaged. He was ticking, clicking and twitching inside. His green eyes stared at Melekor, not understanding yet all he said.

“She ...did what?” he finally managed to ask. He gulped and his voice got a bit darker, more instinctual and confident. “What  _ exactly _ has she done?” he rephrased his question, his pupils dilating significantly with each word. Melekor obliged him painfully, explaining him what his own mother had explained to him so carelessly before. Glain was scandalized on a level he’d rarely ever felt before – and those times had always been related to offenses directed at his family. He’d paled about as much as Melekor blushed, but anger soon brought more coloration back on his neck.

“This is outrageous! It changes  _ everything! _ ” he hissed. “It means you are… my half- _ sister _ ,” he came to the realization. “How did you learn this only so recently?” he asked, shaking his head and glancing around in disbelief, as to get a clue and organize his thoughts better while Melekor answered that his mother had always been the one dealing with doctors. As he looked around, Glain caught sight of someone that forced him to divert his attention from Melekor to the two persons who had entered the Replimat. Garak and a  _ Starfleet blue shirt _ . Blue meant Science or Medical. Glain stared at them both almost aggressively. Garak stared back at him with mid-surprise and outrage. Neither of them were happy to see each other again.

“Doctors,” Glain repeated, suddenly quite hot in his tone. “ _ Doctors, _ ” he grabbed Melekor’s arm to get his attention and pointed at the Starfleet officer with Garak. “Is  _ this _ one a doctor? Is he  _ the _ doctor?” he tensed up. Melekor almost had a bad reflex at the unexpected contact. Following his brother’s finger to Julian, he figured he’d do better to keep on with the lies, just in case.

“No,” he answered rather blankly, “ _ my _ doctor is an unemployed Vulcan-Trill hybrid,” he reclaimed his arm a bit gingerly, to take his teacup, “But that one  _ is _ a doctor. Doctor Bashir, Chief Medical,” he sipped the bland tea, “Why?” Glain stilled himself a bit.

“Every and any biomedical information on Cardassian physique is to be kept strictly and utterly secret from any alien species,  _ especially _ ones we have or have had feuds with. We cannot allow information to filter to their doctors or military. They  _ would _ use it against us. They  _ hate _ us,” he sneered. “That doctor of yours, we might need to report him. This is going to be a complicated trial, and a  _ very _ mediatic one. Your mother will be one of the most wanted women in the quadrant.” Melekor gulped a little.

“I’d rather not involve him,” he told him quickly, feeling and looking quite panicked – he didn’t want to get Timun into  _ this _ deep of a disaster, “I’d rather not involve my mother either,” he admitted, “For all she’s done, she’s still my mother.”

“True, it’s your mother, and you have the instinct to care for her, but she’s a criminal in the eyes of Cardassian law. She has committed a number of major offenses and it would only make sense that you disassociate from her,” Glain stated.

“There are no medical records concerning me,” Melekor decided to divert the topic from his mother’s case, “and the discovery that I’m half-female was mostly made with some assistance from Mister Garak,” he pointed his muffin at Garak, not noticing the expression of disapproval on the other’s face. “He was the only one familiar enough with Cardassian physique to be able to properly set a diagnosis,” he set his muffin on the plate. He looked at Garak however, slightly puzzled.

“The panel of occupations this man has had never ceases to expand,” Glain snorted acidly. “A most dubious person…” Melekor didn’t catch the hint, instead suggesting that Garak was probably very bored (which Glain could agree with wholeheartedly) and did research as a hobby.

 

At the other table, just a bit further away, Julian was looking quite smug as he’d figured who the young Cardassian newcomer must be.

“There are limits to how satisfied one can be, Doctor,” Garak chastised him.

“Yes, and I haven’t reached them yet,” Julian grumped back at his friend, eavesdropping “I  _ think _ they were talking about Melekor’s medical condition just now. Any idea why they’d discuss that – and  _ you? _ ” Garak snorted.

“It must be because I had to play doctor?” he suggested evasively. “A detail I’d rather he left out,” he sighed. “For their sakes too.” He wasn’t sure if he was glad or angry about Julian’s sharper hearing. Currently, he was quite embarrassed.

“Probably, I don’t see why else you’d pop up in a conversation about- oh,” he interrupted himself, “I think you have a problem there, Mister Kel’s brother is suspicious of your talents,” Julian grinned and forked some of his chicken, dipping it in honey and some leaves before eating it. It was great to have the upper hand for once.

“I see only one explanation,” Garak said but then took a bite of his sandwich to make Julian wait for the answer. “It’s a  _ conspiracy _ ,” he whispered, pulling the paranoid act. “Or maybe it’s simply the problem with being multi-talented. Have you never raised any suspicions yourself? You are, after all, a talented doctor, a talented athlete, a ladies’ man and talented to make friends of the most unlikely persons,” he listed, shifting the topic and setting a predatory attention on Julian.

“Now that you mention it, you  _ are  _ right!” Julian’s eyes widened and he leaned forward in his seat, “Maybe I was replaced by a very talented changeling when I was a child!” he teased Garak, laughing a bit as he sat back, “Wonder what the real Julian is up to, huh? Maybe he’s somewhere on a desolate world, raised by insidious aliens or something.” That Julian chose this moment to unleash his creativity was most interesting to Garak. And to Elim. The Cardassian felt his blood rushing a bit faster while his senses kept on sharpening.

“Would that world be more desolate than a stolen child’s heart?” he asked. “And what about your parents? It must be terrible for them to have their own child replaced by another one – the Terran instinct for family isn’t quite like the Cardassian one, but for what I can see of your friend, Mister O’Brien, and his attachment to his daughter, the bond is very strong and I don’t believe he would appreciate to have her replaced by anyone, no matter how delightful or skilled.” His eyes were still as quick and attentive, but softer too, like blue cushions ready to receive any information with care. Julian never spoke of his family, which was quite uncharacteristic of a Terran, Garak had noted.

“Now they are talking about Dukat,” Julian swapped topic – an evasive maneuver the tailor didn’t fail to pick, “something about how it’s outrageous that Dukat left such data behind, and something about sloppy programmation.” Garak chuckled at that and Julian concentrated a little more, “I would  _ think _ Mister Kel might have uncovered something he shouldn’t, and his brother is upset about it.” The doctor put his fingertips together and leaned his elbows on the table, “As for your question, wouldn’t any parent be despaired to find that their child isn’t who they thought they were?” He wasn’t sure why he was conveying this to Garak, but neither was he sure Garak actually understood exactly what he meant, which made him more comfortable talking about it, “I think they’d do anything to find that child again,” he smiled.

“They could be despaired, or ashamed, try to find the child or deny it ever existed,” Garak echoed. “I’ve heard that you Terrans consider that one has become adult when they are capable of forgiving their parents for all the errors they’ve done. As such, I wonder if both the real child and the changeling child would be capable of forgiving the parents for raising the changeling and forsaking their own child?” he asked more innocently. Julian smiled at Garak.

“Why, that is a fascinating question,” he took his glass of water, and sipped from it. “Is adoption a common thing in Cardassia? Because I think you should view it from that angle – is an adopted child any less your child, than one of your own flesh and blood? Perhaps  _ I _ am not the changeling, perhaps I’m the real child. And that other child, was the changeling that they got rid of, before it was too late,” he sipped the water again, “There’s a reason why there are so many Earth legends about children getting swapped out for changeling ones, or folklore trolls. The supernatural creatures would be as nice to the human child, as the human parents were to theirs. If you kill or hurt the changeling, the real child would also die or be harmed.”

“How interesting,” Garak appreciated. “Was all that folklore necessary to encourage parents to treat their children well?” he dared to ask. “On Cardassia, adoption is unfortunately not so common, or rather, not as much as would be practical for society. It  _ would _ be good for those children to retrieve a status this way, and it could also alleviate some other issues, I suppose,” he favored not to mention high poverty and starvation driving desperate kids to volunteer to labour camps if they couldn’t make it to the military, while infertile females occasionally committed suicide… among other problems. Julian smiled sunnily.

“I guess those stories were made up to remind people that even if your children can sometimes be little monsters, they’re still the child you love, and that if you lose your temper and hurt your child just because the child is being impossible... you’ll also hurt the child you love, and that child will remember all the things you did and said, and they’ll get scars that won’t so easily be healed. I guess it’s not so much about how you treat your child, but more about encouraging understanding and forgiving as basic parenting skills,” Julian concluded his personal analysis, then sighed, continuing, “But then, if you consider that your child seems to have permanently turned into the changeling, you will never get your own child back, you are stuck with a creature that looks like your child, but isn’t. What do you do with such a child? In some stories, the parents kill the child. In other stories, they take the child to a forest far, far away and just dump them there – an indirect murder, by the way, though at the time, people were of the belief that forest faeries might come and take care of abandoned children. I think the mothers comforted themselves with  _ those _ stories,” he pondered, then continued. “But you see, it is not extremely straightforward, is it? What would a Cardassian do?” he continued to ask in the same breath, “If you had a child, Garak, and the child became someone you could not possibly consider your child, what would you do?” Disown them, probably, Julian figured. Garak mused about the question but shortly, guessing what the other thought from the look on his face. It gave him an easy exit to avoid thinking again of Kel.

“It usually takes a trial for disassociation to happen,” he told. “And a Cardassian parent will do all they can to ensure no trial takes place for either them or their child. Otherwise, having disagreements with your child is no reason to disassociate. To do this would be a social suicide for one, and for two, few are those who bring themselves to this. Our parental instinct is strong. See Nall Rokat,” he glanced towards the brothers, “he is ready to recognize Melekor and take the risk of destroying his entire career and family, to doom the son he’s always known and loved so to provide a place for the one he’s never even met. Would a Terran do this?” he asked quite seriously.

“Thankfully, Federal society isn’t as cruel as to force people to make that choice,” Julian pointed out, rather evasive of the question, “I think possibly some would. But I’m not sure I think it’s the best thing to do, personally.” He, too, glanced at the table.

“Of course, you’d think so…” Garak looked in the same direction, not revealing more of what he thought. “Siblings too share an instinct to protect their own…” Julian wanted to hold Elim’s hand, but Garak was in the way, and so were everyone else at the Replimat.

“They seem to be getting along,” he leaned a bit closer to Garak instead, adding in a lower voice, “So when are you going to tell me why he seemed so angry to see you,  _ us? _ ”

“Don’t take it personally, Doctor, but I would wager your uniform and profession might have disquieted him for reasons you already know,” Garak smiled almost sheepishly. He lingered, staring in Julian’s eyes for a little longer than was proper and had to mentally slap himself away, but the feelings that had transpired for a moment weren’t as easy to get rid of. He was full of Julian and the corner of his lips kept on curling up mischievously. “Didn’t you give me a pair of pants to adjust the other day?” he asked, knowing full well it wasn’t the case. “I think I happen to have lost the needles marking the length you wanted, but if you have just a little time before your next shift, we could fix this before I reopen,” he suggested.

“Yes, I believe I can take make the time,” Julian nodded, sunk into Garak’s eyes too, all the way to the level at which Elim laid, and smiled freshly, “Hectic day, what with the loss of needles and all that?”

“Without them, I am lost as much as they are,” Garak replied dramatically as he got up. He felt like grabbing Julian’s hand and running back to his shop with him, but this was of course impossible, and he had to keep himself in control and avoid to think of such foolish things. The last thing he wanted was to let his body display the truth of his feelings, and in this particular moment, he felt especially thankful for his trained discipline.

##  * * *

Only once safe behind locked doors, in the dark privacy of his small realm on the Promenade, could Elim look at the doctor with all the truth he felt for him reflected in his eyes and in the warmth rising in his body. For a minute or two, he found nothing to say, simply looking at him in a way he wasn’t allowed to at any other time, drowning in the darkness of his lover’s eyes staring back at him. He touched Julian’s chest, his neck, his face, as if he wasn’t entirely certain the man was real; and gentle arms wrapped around him. He wished he could say something, but found he had no desire to do so because English couldn’t convey what he really meant to say, and the Kardasi words wouldn’t be what his lover would hear – and Elim did not want the translator to make up lies for him, to lose the substance of what he truly meant in approximations… And so he went for the only language that conveyed the plain, simple truth.

Before Julian could see it coming, his tailor had dug a hand in the blackness of his hair and pinned him back against the wall, urging a kiss like a tale of need, love and tenderness spoken in physical, literal linguistics. Cardassian kisses were moments for Julian to call his own, treasures granted to him by Elim. And Elim had learned since last time – he’d become entrancing, daring, confident. Julian liked it, this confidence, and he let himself be captured, returning the affections warmly – with his tongue, and with his hands, seeking their way up over Elim’s arms, and to his neckscales, stroking them gently – at that, Elim grinned through the kiss. Electricity was running across his chest, shoulders and neck. It felt hot and ecstatic. Love and happiness entwined between them – he could feel the emotions arraying from Julian too, though he wasn’t realizing yet what synergy was growing there.

How had the two of them managed to stay away from each other for such a long time? The attraction had always been there, their mutual restraint was admirable – but now that the ice had broken, the flood was free, and Julian brought his hands to Garak’s jaw, holding him firmly, turning the kiss into something more ravaging. He was a dark beast of fire, and very Terran in his constant hurry to live the instant to the fullest, like time was a thief and an enemy. But for once, Elim could agree and align with him. They didn’t have all the time in the world for this stolen moment, and he had to break the kiss into fragments as he dragged his very willing mate further away, into the workshop, lips joining again and again like magnets, hands clinging to each other’s clothes and bodies waltzing with little care for the surroundings until Elim could reach the worktable. He swept what tools and fabric laid on it off onto the ground to lay Julian on it instead. No patterns were needed to unveil the doctor.

The tailor’s hand slipped down his lover’s chest, unzipping the suit completely so he could plunge inside and feel the hardness trapped in Julian’s underwear while his other hand pulled at the fabric as an invitation to undress, and little by little, the doctor disappeared along with the Starfleet uniform, until only Julian remained, naked in front of Elim the tailor. He grinned a bit childishly, daring to sit up a little, leaning against his elbows.

“You certainly carry the heat of Cardassia in your blood today,” he pointed out to his lover.

“Do I?” Elim smirked, defiant as he laid a knee on the table to sit by his man’s right side, a hand caressing his back, the other claiming his manhood. “My dear Julian,” he whispered to his ear, “your smugness, ever so candid in its arrogance, makes me want to torture you and conquer each and every cell of your being,” he spoke very distinctly and clearly. “How unfortunate that time isn’t on my side today…” he smiled with a vicious softness, fingers writhing slowly on the bold member below their pulp. Those words were  _ especially _ meaningful coming from Elim, and Julian lost his breath to them, to him, to the infuriatingly subtle touch.

Without words, he fumbled with one arm to get hold of Elim’s clothes and pull him closer, into yet another kiss, during which he let him go, brushing his fingers up over the scale-paved path to his hair, which he held onto.

“Is that what you want?” his voice was breathy and thick at the same time, “To tie me up and bend me to your will? It can be arranged – but tell me, do you want me to submit or resist?”

“Julian, do not get me wrong when I say this, but  _ resistance is futile _ ; I always win in the end. You can try however,” his eyes shone with luscious cruelty. He tore a kiss from his mouth, biting the flesh of his lip and pulling on it with delight before getting off the table and to the replicator. “Do  _ not _ move,” he ordered Julian with military authority, then ordered a length of rope and a magnetic denedynium hook from the replicator. Once it appeared, he pulled on the replicated rope to test its resistance, appreciating the smacking sound it produced, and proceeded to roll it conveniently in the wait for the electro-magnetic clasp to materialize. When he turned over, he gave a haughty smirk at the table, now devoid of Julian. Lowering his blue eyes a little, he quickly found him underneath and addressed the young man a warning.

“We don’t have time for your childish behavior, Julian. Get yourself out of there before I catch you or I’ll have to treat you like the brat you are being right now, and I’m afraid your rump will burn with a fire unlike the one you feel at the moment,” he walked over to him.

Julian crawled backwards out from his hiding place, but put himself at the other end of the table. A tremulous grin played on his face as he darted off into the shop to hide behind one of the clothes’ stands, barely managing to suppress a giggle. Hissing to himself, Elim stepped forth, trying to reach his prey, without running at first. Julian didn’t wait for him to get too close to move as well, leading the both of them into a chase through the shop. Some displays fell, some shelves were disorders, the doctor went through the various cabins, shuffling himself into the curtains to hide and then escape, and the tailor found with delighted surprise that he never had had so much fun in his own establishment. He repressed his laughter however, and once he considered this little game had lasted long enough, put his knowledge of the space to better use, quickly cornering Julian.

“Now that’s enough, my dear,” he spoke with stark simplicity, holding him by the hair – Julian was grateful that this wasn’t one of those days when he was insanely sensitive to hair pulling. True, it still pricked a little, but more in a tickling than a painful way. “Your hands, present them to me,” Elim commanded. “And do not try anything silly, I  _ will _ retaliate and you do not want to try  _ this one _ ,” he warned seriously, slamming the clasp against the wall and activating the magnetism. “Game’s over, child, time has come to face your punishment like a man.” Still, the doctor only trusted Elim to a certain point; last time they were intimate like this, Elim had been a complete virgin, and Julian wasn’t sure he knew enough of what he was doing to safely pull it off.

“Just what are you going to do to me?” Julian asked half-concerned, half-eager.

“Tie you up so you won’t run away,” Elim passed the rope around the doctor’s wrists, making sure that the snare wasn’t too tight by sliding two fingers in between the rope and the skin – he didn’t want to cut the blood flow nor hurt his lover. That done, he reached for the clasp, locked the rope in it, and moved it as high above Julian’s head as he could, forcing him to lift his arms a little. “If you tire, hold to the rope,” he advised with a gentle yet confident grin. “You will not fall, nor will you escape by pulling. Care for your wrists, Doctor,” he kissed the edge of his jaw. Julian had to admit, Elim seemed to know what he was doing, at least for that part. The Cardassian on his behalf felt devious. Such acts had never been sexual before and lust brought an all-new coloration to them. He let his gaze and his fingers trail down Julian’s chest, following the line of his abs and contemplating the rest of his body. Quick, his eyes suddenly rose back up to meet Julian’s.

“You’re mine,” he said simply and collapsed, a knee down the floor, his hands on the man’s hips, “Mine,” he repeated, bringing his fingers to the limb he wished to treat. He touched it like a rare and fragile jewel at first, observing it, closer and closer, soon feeling it with his lips, eyes closed to better sense the details. When the lips no longer were enough, he drew his tongue and kept on his exploration, slow and delicate in his dedication. One of his hands still held the member, the other fondled the balls with care. All of this was his. His. And following his instinct, he engulfed it, taking the tip in his mouth and suckling on it, torturing his lover with the slowness of his act. Julian had to take it all back – Elim knew  _ exactly what he was doing _ . And he did it so well that the doctor had to wonder whether his claim at being a virgin had been a total lie. It sure seemed like one, the way his lips and tongue found spots so naturally, wrenching panting and whimpers from Julian’s own mouth like the deed was easy.

He writhed where he hung, clinging to the rope, his left leg eventually flung over Elim’s right shoulder in an attempt to push himself deeper in, and to steady himself against  _ something _ . It truly was torture, to be made to watch, to feel, but not to touch, not to give. He looked as his tailor freed his own arousal, he looked as he carefully supported him to pull on his doctor’s right leg a bit, just so he could ride it some, sliding his slick hardness against his prisoner’s tibia. Elim didn’t question whether this was a strange thing to do or not – Julian was his and it was all there was to be thought of in this moment. He could feel his lover’s submission, and he took it like yet another most beautiful and precious gift from his oh-so-unique friend.

Glancing up at his lover, he smiled at the display and abandon he’d thrown him into. Feverish and bleeding sweat, Julian could only keep on looking at Elim, sweet, precious, gentle, dangerous and deadly; wishing that he could touch his face with his hands, stroke his hair, worship his breath by mixing it with his own. His eyes watered a little from emotion, and he tilted his head back a bit, letting the salty drops escape his eyes and tickle his skin. He moaned, tried to move his hips, but it wasn’t all too easy; he hadn’t much control of his body when he was rendered helpless like this. It was frustrating and delicious at the same time, to abandon himself, to have no choice but to trust.

Slowly, softly, but possessively, Elim let his hands wander other places to extend his territory to the doctor’s rear, and took claim over his right cheek, caressing its skin, especially the places turned wet by sweat. He still marveled at the thought that all of this was his, even the salt. Especially the salt, he grinned inwardly. Then, reading the frustration in his lover’s eyes and an increase of temperature in his neithers, he closed his eyes just for a second, then let out a simple command in between sucklings.

“Come.”

He knew all too well how commands could paralyze and render someone incapable of committing to even the most simple act, and so sucked to help and receive what he ordered. Julian gasped, blushing at how far Elim dared take this game. He truly belonged to the Cardassian at this stage, a humiliating concept, and surely offensive to most of the station’s inhabitants – yet, a notion that filled him with warmth. He was safe with Elim, strong with Elim, and together they were whole where they were normally broken – their jagged edges fit in each other’s cracks. A puzzle of perfection.

His body built on this poetry, stiffening, quivering, sliding against the wall as muscles moved on their own accord. He gasped again, then groaned, unceremonious sounds thrown into the air in a guttural orchestra of pleasure close to rage – he came, and it was almost an effort, as if his entire body had to work twice as hard than it normally had to, to exhaust itself and push out each pulsating shot. The Cardassian received with grace what he asked for, letting the fluids run down his throat, and licked what came off his lips when it’d been too much. He vibrated, feeling ready to blow too, but got up on his feet instead, holding to his dizzied lover. Julian hung like a wet rag, breathing hotly as Elim  freed from the clasp. The tailor held him too, to make sure he wouldn’t fall, and pressed his erection against him, seeking for warmth. It was so sensitive in places, almost numb in others, it was maddening to him.

“Save me now,” he moaned against his lover’s ear whilst removing the rope from one of his wrists.

As soon as his hand was freed, Julian turned them around, pressing Elim against the wall, kissing him ravenously. Just as hungrily, his hand travelled down over fabric, until it reached his exposed erection, which he kindled with long, strong strokes. The rope still dangled from his other hand as he held onto the tailor’s shirt, to steady himself, at first. He then carried his touch upwards, to tease and squeeze sensitive neck scales. It didn’t take long for the tailor’s breath to get completely ragged, and his eyes flickered in the dizziness of climax as he came, undignified sounds of pleasure and surprise leaving him. He did have a vague “ _ oh, no… _ ” kind of thought for the floor, but chose not to care yet. He had to close his eyes more longly, blinking slowly as he tried to recover his breath and his senses, looking at Julian as if he wondered what he was even doing there.

“I hope I did not hurt you…” he tried to say almost formally, but his voice was still quite dry. Julian folded both his arms around Elim and held him close at that, smiling about the question, and about what they had done – freezing a bit too, actually, once his body resumed a more normal self-awareness.

“You haven’t hurt me at all,” he reassured him, withdrawing enough that he could press a kiss first at his nose, and then to his lips, “but I fear  _ we _ might have hurt some of your... shop stands,” he looked over his shoulder, smirking a bit to himself. His lover returned a grin while also returning his privates to the privacy of his pants and into their bodily sheath. “I guess I’ll have to stay and help you clean up, that’s only fair,” Julian took Elim’s hand and dragged him with him to the workshop’s table, where he had him sit – then he went to the replicator and ordered two cups of Tarkalean tea, of which one he gave to Elim, and the other he set on the table as he started getting back into his clothes, “Tell me if you start freezing, I’ll replicate a blanket for you.” Elim rolled his eyes over the other’s skin.

“I am more worried for you than for me,” he looked at his fully-clothed self. He smiled, still shivering a bit at the thought of what they did. “It was quite ...special ...this time,” he said more hesitantly. “Have you ...done this sort of things before? ...A lot?” he had to inquire. Julian, who was already halfway into his clothes, smiled and shook his head.

“That’s what I mean, these kind of sessions can be psychologically overwhelming, and can result in a significant mood drop – it’s like getting high. The brain gets used to being up there, so when things get back to normal, it can manifest in negative ways; freezing, crying, feeling depressed, apathetic, wanting to be hugged or wanting to be alone – and drinking is important,” he added as he finally zipped up his suit and went to pick his cup, “Yes, I’ve done such things before. I usually play the dominant part, though.” Elim tried to hide his slight flush in his cup. There he was, feeling like a virgin again. Did Julian really have to be so comfortable and shameless about those things? Being intimidated by someone else’s knowledge and experience wasn’t a normal condition for neither Elim nor Garak.

“Aha,” he nodded, then wasn’t too sure what else to say. Feeling somewhat silly he decided to attempt discarding his ego for a moment and indulge in the ridicule. “And just how did you get into those things?” he asked, letting a bit of amusement show through. “I don’t suppose you learned this at Starfleet, or maybe I am wrong?” Julian frowned, suddenly a little disturbed.

“You know, that’s a very good question. I’m not sure I remember, if I should be totally honest,” he brightened up a little, though, “It  _ might _ have been while I was visiting an art museum. Some highly symbolic and highly questionable pieces drew my attention – I was fourteen – they weren’t blatantly sexual, but I found them arousing. And, ah, I’ll willingly admit that I enjoy control, and the submission of others,” he shrugged a little, “There’s something appealing in watching someone else in entire abandon to themselves and to you, isn’t there?” he sighed happily, remembering Elim that first time. “I love you,” he had to say, suddenly like that. The Cardassian couldn’t help but laugh, though it wasn’t mocking but rather joyful and amused if anything.

“Of course you would enjoy control. You are a  _ doctor _ , what a better position to see people’s vulnerabilities, surrender to your care, with no choice but to trust in you?” he grinned. “You aren’t so naive, pure and innocent as too many would think… Fools,” Elim spoke, devouring him with sparkling blue eyes, “they have no idea what dark chest of wonders lies in you… And neither do I,” he admitted with a slight tint of bitterness. He smiled fondly however, brushing Julian’s lips with a finger.

“But patience is the virtue of good lockpickers.” Julian smiled back, covering his shadows in sunlight, lifting Garak’s finger from his lips. “And that is probably for the better – with no mysteries left to solve, what charm would I hold to you?” he cooed, blowing at his tea, “Perhaps it isn’t a dark chest of wonders, Elim, perhaps it’s a small, black coffin, and perhaps you’re better off not knowing what’s in it.” He closed his eyes and sighed in content at the fumes of his favorite tea.

“The changeling child?” Elim made a guess but chuckled before Julian could answer. He let the sound die, simply looking at the other. “I love you too,” he murmured dreamily. It felt strange to say it like this, and to say it to Julian. “It is quite an obscene thing to say, is it not? Or maybe it simply feels dangerous to say out loud. It is a frail world when such a simple truth can shatter lives, careers, empires…” he sighed, gazing at a dress of more sober design on a display that still stood, and dressed the memory of Mila in it – Palandine wasn’t the only person he tailored for, far from it.

“By any chance… did you see a Cardassian woman working in the house when you went away to find a cure for me?” he phrased himself in way not to mention Tain directly. “A housekeeper – her hair must be quite white by now.” Julian watched Elim in silence. A housekeeper? Why did he ask about Tain’s h-

“Maybe,” he interrupted himself, “when I was stealing the – I mean, rehoming – the orchid. Through the window,” he pursed his lips. “She’s your mother,” he figured, “and Enabran Tain...” that made him even  _ more _ despicable, and Julian didn’t want to voice any of  _ those _ feelings, because he was certain it’d lead to an argument that neither of them had the time for. Elim glared at Julian.

“What a  _ vivid _ imagination you have!” he burst as if this was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard from Julian Bashir in quite a while. “To think a respectable man like Enabran would… Oh, Julian, you need to stop with your Klingon operas plotlines,” he patted his shoulder. “Mila is only this, really, a plain, simple housekeeper, and ...I miss her sometimes. I’m glad to know she is still there,” he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of his tea before drinking some. Julian sipped his tea, discreetly getting closer to Elim, and finally leaning against his shoulder, sharing a bit of warmth.

“I think you should close the shop for today,” he advised him in a gentle voice, “I have to go to the infirmary, but I’ll come back later and clean up for you – I’m  _ very  _ sanitary. Just go to your quarters, Elim, and get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“These past weeks I’ve been under the impression that my doctor wants me to go out of business,” Elim snorted but kissed Julian’s forehead. “I’ll close, but I’ll clean up too. It’s not just physical… It helps to reorder ideas too. Thoughts. Memories…” he mused aloud. He drank from his cup, silent for a minute, then put the cup away to grab Julian’s face with both hands and kiss him, sharing the taste of tea on his tongue for another couple of minutes. “Get back to work, Doctor.”

“As you wish,” Julian nuzzled the other’s nosetip, then stole yet another kiss, before parting, backing away a little and grinning, “And I’d never want you to get out of business; I’ll buy something from you later, to make up for your loss of time.” He winked, then left before Elim had the chance to snipe something back at him.


	25. Day 23 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide topics

Melekor had a brother and he wanted to know everything about him, but Glain had to disappoint. He was still very guarded and despite disturbing similarities between them, he couldn’t and _didn’t_ _want_ to see the other as his sibling. Melekor had told him he was very well learned in engineering, programmation and encryption, which Glain was very prone to believe considering how easily he’d retrieved files from the station’s computer, bypassing a Level 5 clearance with so much ease he hadn’t realized it wasn’t supposed to be easy. Glain wasn’t sure whether he was proud or nervous about the competition. He too was talented in those areas, although he cared to hide it, trying to appear more manly by belittling greatly his technological knowledge.

“So you lived on Trill?” Glain raised an eyebrow as they left the Replimat. He didn’t know much about the aliens there, but what little he knew wasn’t attractive in any way. “That must have been quite horrible,” he sympathized a little, “I’ve heard only the elite of the population is allowed to form couples and get married, but then they usually get scattered as Starfleet stock. It must be absolutely awful for all those Enjoined Trills to be away from the person they love; the worlds of the Federation are really quite barbaric,” he shuddered.

Melekor couldn’t help but be amused at that misconception and cared to explain what  _ Joined _ Trills actually were, which didn’t fail to increase the other’s horror. Worms in the belly? That was utterly gross, and Glain was almost relieved when they reached Quark’s and Melekor started talking to the bartender instead. The young archivist now understood a little better why that same Ferengi had been staring at him so much as they crossed in the cargo bay. The package he slipped to Melekor was carefully concealed, and the young Cardassian couldn’t help but to be curious as to what might be inside. He didn’t ask however, waiting to maybe see.

After a little walk through the corridor of Terok Nor –  _ Deep Space Nine _ – they entered the engineer’s quarters, and the first thing to see was a table layered with PADDs  _ and a rifle _ . Glain shuddered at the sight of the weapon but chose not to comment on it until Melekor opened his package and started prying the crystal in place. Not even counting compulsory military training, Glain had been around Iltarel and his stupid fascination for weapons for long enough to know exactly what vital piece Melekor was inserting in the rifle.

“Wait a second!  _ What _ do you think you’re doing with this!?” Glain came closer. “Bringing or assembling a weapon on the station is against the rules! I’m quite certain, I’ve read it. Are you trying to get into troubles or planning to kill someone?” Melekor sighed in frustration and glared up at his brother.

“Neither,” he told him, relaxing a little as he realized how similar they were in that regard – he  _ did _ recall having a similar reaction to Timun’s Romulan Ale. Technology was  _ entirely different _ , though, “I just wanted to see if I could do it, is all,” he looked back at what he was doing, aligning the pieces perfectly, and continuing to integrate the other two too into the system, “I saw the design of this piece of arms, and I fell in love with it,” he explained as he perfected the placements, attaching them using a fine, small tool, “I knew I had to have it,” he sealed the panels, and finally took off his eyepiece, viewing the rifle for himself, turning it a bit in his hands, “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he grinned at his brother. Glain’s look was one of complete disagreement.

“I don’t need another one like Iltarel around me,” he fussed, “especially one who doesn’t even care to stay within the borders of legality! You are irresponsible! I can’t believe  _ I _ am the younger one of us!” he stiffened and approached, a bit aggressive in his agitation. “It’s a ...very beautiful work,” he had to reckon, “but  _ why _ did you have to make a weapon out of all possible things!?” he stared at his brother, then back at the rifle. “You really made this all yourself? It’s illegal!” he kept on going back and forth between praise and reprimand.

“Would you like to hold her?” Melekor asked, as to make the other stop freaking out, and before Glain knew, he found himself with the weapon in his hands and closed his eyes, trying to keep calm and in control of himself while the other went on about the various equipments he’d created or put together before this. “Are you going to report me?” Melekor ended up asking in feigned innocence.

“You know very well what the consequences would be, for both of us, and for Father too,” Glain answered, outraged. “You are my brother ...sister, or whichever,” he groaned and tried to put the weapon on the table with as much care and dread as if it might explode at any second. “Positively infuriating is what you are, really.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “So,  _ how _ exactly did you access the blueprints?”

“It’s a bit technical and probably boring,” Melekor tried to evade the topic; he’d rather know more about his brother’s life, really. But when Glain insisted, getting provocative – “Or maybe you don’t really care to impress me?” he’d teased smugly, his body language turning more sultry too – Melekor realized things weren’t going to be so easy, and obliged him. But not before telling him to dump the flirting act. It was… inappropriate and disturbing. Not that Glain seemed to have realized how he came off.

“-Then I used a mixture between voice command and intelligent software to defragment my fossils,” Melekor finished his explanation and aimed the rifle at the replicator, to check the aim and feel of the weapon, “I wish I could fire this thing without alerting security.” Glain’s eyes rounded at once.

“ _ DROP that THING! _ ” he yelled, “Are you completely crazy!? Why in the world would you  _ aim _ at a replicator, of all things!!? Do you plan on killing us all!?” he went over and kicked his brother in the ankle, causing him to yelp and jump aside.

“Oh, relax will you!? It’s not even powered on!” Melekor bent down and rubbed his hurting ankle, “And where else do you think I should aim?” he asked aggressively, “The replicator is one of the  _ few _ things on these walls you could use as a target, unless you volunteer,” he added nastily.

“Is that a threat!? And do you  _ have _ to aim!?” Glain fussed at him with great offense. “I thought I understood you already have a penis so why do you have to hold this thing and act like one of those militaries so overly full of testosterone!? This is properly disgusting and undignified! I’m out! I’m out of here!” he strode out of the quarters. Then realizing his bag was inside and he had nowhere to go, he came back in at once, grabbed his bag and went to the room to the right. This was a new ‘worst moment’ of his life and he really wanted to cry.

Sat on the bed, hugging his bag because there were no bedsheets and no pillow, Glain felt miserable enough that his eyes got wet. Some tears had ran down his cheek and his bag when the other’s voice came through the door to tell he’d put the weapon away. Hurriedly, Glain dried his eyes, trying to sit more properly as he fumbled a mess of words to answer to him, in a mixture of Kardasi, English and Bajoran. Melekor came in and had the decency not to look at him too much while he was in this emotional state. He sat by his side, looking at the opposite wall instead.

“I still don’t know your name,” he nudged gently at the topic.

“Glain,” the boy told after he’d composed himself a bit. “Glain Rokat. I was named after Glain Remor, a Conservator who mattered a lot to father…” he added, a bit weakly. “I’m  _ not _ usually like that, but I… I really hate weapons and violence.” He buried his face in his bag, thinking of Nall, of the night he told him of Melekor. “I wish you didn’t exist,” he let out a small sound. “I know you didn’t intend to be legally recognized, but Father is way too soft… I’ve always loved him so much, I’ve always done all I could to make him proud, I’ve always supported him and been there for him. I’ve given so much, so much more than he even knows… If you come, I’m not sure what the judgement will be,” he sniffled. “I’m not sure he stands a chance if your mother isn’t tried first. If he recognizes you as he intends to, he’ll be stripped of everything he’s built, and he expects of me to disassociate” He had to silence himself for a while to drive back sobs. He was exhausted, further from home than he’d ever been, and he missed his father, his uncle, his bed, his luzzurs… “And you!” he started again, “maybe you’ll still have your mother, but  _ I _ will be alone! An orphan! Glinn Reyal will get back at me, I’ll be defenseless and I’ll lose absolutely everything!” he cried. Oh, he knew his uncle would probably offer to come live with him, but Glain would sooner try to appeal to Siram’s help than to Enjam –  _ Glinn _ Enjam Rokat.

“I’m only twenty two,” he tried to guilt Melekor, “I don’t want the end to be now! I’m… I’m so mad at you and Father! He said I’ll understand why he has to recognize you the day I hold my baby in my arms, but it will never happen if he does this… You? You’re already nothing, it won’t change a thing for you… But me?” he glanced at Melekor but could barely see him through the tears, “I can’t believe he’s ready to do this to me, it’s like he loves you more than me even though he’s never met you… and I hate you so much for this…!”

His face was a mess of tears and sadness and his hair was rebelling like it had a life of its own, and yet Glain was still quite cute. He was one of those persons capable of retaining grace while crying, and whose ugly sobs still sounded melodic and somewhat dignified. “I hate you…!” he repeated though it sounded more like a desperate cry for help. As the rant finally ended, Melekor laid an arm around Glain’s shoulders, leaning him closer against him.

“I know,” he told him gently, and couldn’t help but to nuzzle his hair. He’d been prepared for this, thanks to Garak, mostly, and found that while he took it with relative calm, it still  _ hurt _ . But it wasn’t the harshness that hurt him, it was Glain’s position and vulnerability. “What would happen if I refused?” he asked finally, “If I asked that he wouldn’t recognize me? If I was...” he frowned a little, “someone else.”

“I don’t know,” the youth answered honestly while fishing for a handkerchief to dry his face and recover more dignity. “It’s not how it works in Cardassia… Father is head of the family, and if he decides to recognize you, not even you can oppose it. And anyway, Father has made an enemy of Glinn Reyal, and he’s always been trying to undermine our family ever since. He couldn’t attack Father directly, so he targeted me instead –” he had a hiccup and felt outraged at himself for it – “but Father protected me. Glinn Reyal used to be a Gul before making a fool of himself with those plots. His loss of status did nothing but to fuel his hatred for us, and if he ever finds out about your existence, he  _ will _ squander. Investigations will have to be done, the blood link will be proven, and Father will still choose to recognize you…” He sighed in an attempt to calm down. “You understand…?”

Melekor did, enough so to figure how complicated the situation was as he inquired further about it. Glain admitted he’d been keeping tabs on Reyal, although he didn’t reveal the extent of what that meant.  _ In fine _ , the situation was alike to a dead end, because no matter how much the archivist had figured about Enker Reyal’s own incriminating past, he could never produce the concrete proofs of his suspicions – files had gone missing along with hardware left behind after the Withdrawal.  _ How convenient a treachery _ .

At last, Melekor diverted the topic to something lighter, informing his brother of the modifications he’d done to the replicator and how to get anything beamed to his room. Glain wasn’t sure whether it was highly fortunate or unfortunate that this person, clearly so attractively talented with technology and programmation, had to be his sibling.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “I must admit I’m still a bit confused… No matter it ends up being official or not, you are going to be my sister, I suppose? I mean, are you intending to become a woman? And  most important, are you going to change your name?

“I’m not going to  _ become _ anything,” Melekor grunted, “I’ll just explore and express what I already am – a-and I’d rather be referred to as a man. Even if I’ll be assigned a female role and function,” he leaned against the wall, looking at Glain, “I intend on following the wishes of my future spouse. If they will want me to predominantly display as a woman, I will appease them. If they prefer I display more neutral or as something more masculine, I’ll do that – if I’m allowed to be both, then that would be the absolute optimal,” he sighed. Glain didn’t have the time to comment about that as his half-sibling went on asking, “Why don’t you like my name?”

“It’s my grandfather’s name,” he answered. “Melekor Rokat was a… manly man, a talented Conservator, a proper Cardassian and ...very xenophobic,” he told, a bit awkwardly. “I wasn’t always very easy around him,” he opted for a strong euphemism, “but we loved each other because we were family. However, he would  _ never _ have accepted you. He  _ hated _ your mother; my father told me of it, and how relieved and delighted he was when she decided to disappear right after Father proposed her to enjoin.” He shuffled his bag aside to unfold his long legs down the bed. “It just doesn’t align when I see you. He was fierce, terrifying… You’re so… different from him… except for the chufa,” he had to admit. That was the Rokat headspoon, the same his father and his uncle had. “And… I really wish you were more like a girl, it would really make things easier on my end.”

_ One of his ends in particular _ , the thought struck him like a double slap across the face, leaving a blush on both his cheeks and his neck too.

“I just can’t bring myself to see you as a brother, it… I know of the link between us, but I can’t accept it mentally. It doesn’t  _ align _ , and it’s. Confusing.” He sighed, clearly uneasy. “I thought you were going to be some ugly smooth-skinned, absurd creature. You’re not making it easier for me to hate you with that body and those aptitudes of yours,” he groaned and gestured at him. Melekor saw what the problem was, and wished he hadn’t.  _ That _ was awkward.

“I happen to like my name,” he said weakly, jolting off of the wall, “but if it makes you  _ feel _ better, just think of me as Melek or something similar, I don’t mind.” He felt a bit dejected as he hurriedly left the room. He didn’t go to his bedroom, but opted for the bathroom instead, where he stared at himself in the mirror, then drew out the box of makeup Garak had given him. Carefully, he decorated his face – not as bold as Garak had, only subtly, like a whisper of femininity. Then he ran his fingers along the jaw of his reflection.

Did she have a name, that part of him? One that was just hers? No... she was part of him. They had the same name. She had no objections against  _ Melekor _ as her name, other than, perhaps, that it was his mother who had stolen the name, its maleness, and forced it on her. Melekor left the room soon after, as he wanted to talk to Garak about some of the things he’d been considering. Time had passed him by, however, and the Clothier was closed, forcing him to go to the tailor’s room and chime his door. It was starting to get obnoxious, his tendency to bounce back to Garak, but he had an actual reason this time.

##  * * *

On Julian’s utmostly medical advice, Garak had spent his afternoon cleaning, tidying up and reordering his shop – if he was going to be closed, he might as well have the excuse of trying to improve the display for his customers. He’d stared longly at the magnetic clasp on the wall, at what purpose it had served, and decided to leave it there for awhile – not that  _ anyone _ could fathom what purpose it had served once the rope had been removed and the floor had been thoroughly scrubbed to get rid of any possible evidence that any genetic material ever laid there (there were limits not to be crossed).

Back to his quarters, he’d kept on tidying some more – starting with himself – then picked his botany tools to take care of the Edosian orchid. He thought of the day Julian gave it to him, disgruntled that his gift had to be found before the moment he wanted to offer it had come. He also imagined Julian picking it. And Mila. Looking. How exactly did she look like now? Were her eyes as strikingly blue as ever? Was she still wearing her hair the way she used to when Garak last saw her? As he brushed the leaves of the orchid, he thought of her, and of his father too. His other father. Tolan. The first one he’d known.

This was about the time when his door chimed. Getting out of his revery, he opened the door and had the surprise to find a more feminine Melekor behind.

“Hello,” he looked at him with confused appreciation, “What… brings you here?” It’d been a week since the half-Cardassian’s last visit and Garak had to wonder if he would have to fence off a new series of intempestive visits. But for this time, he let him in. He had to ask about the makeup of course, and regretted having asked when Melekor explained that his brother seemed uncomfortable with his being a man, so he thought he’d try to make it easier on him by being more feminine.  _ That _ was awkward and Garak was about thankful for the change of topic as Melekor told about Reyal, seeking for advice as to a way to handle the situation, but Garak listened more than he talked.

“I’ve never met somebody so panicked about being lawful!” Melekor ended up venting instead, “All I did was to assemble one measly firearm, and now he thinks I’m a madman.”

“You did  _ what? _ ” Garak stared at him, half-amused.

“Nobody was ever going to know, and I _ wasn’t _ going to use it either.”

“My dear… I know that security in this place isn’t able to track down all the shady things going on, but this is a risk you should not have taken. Maybe you should listen to your brother after all. No wonder he wouldn’t want to talk about what he keeps in his secret rooms when you’re being this inconsiderate yourself!” he shook his head a bit. He smiled however and leaned to whisper, “Tell me the details about this weapon.” Melekor grinned as much and indulged him with passion, detailing all the specifications with sheer enthusiasm. Of course, he had to also grieve about the impossibility he was in to fire the weapon. Garak took up the implicit request.

“I won’t help you on that one. You’ll have to wait for an opportunity to try it somewhere else,” he sighed and crossed his legs. Shivers were running down his arms again, and his neck felt more electric. “We should resume to a more proper conversation topic, I believe.” He wasn’t going to let the situation slide to something Melekor would blame him for afterwards.

“You like firearms, Garak?” the engineer asked in an impossibly soft voice, not suggestive, just sweet, “Perhaps you could give me tips on where to hide mine?” he grinned a slanted grin, glancing up at Garak, then down again, “Not that I would  _ ever  _ suggest you’ve got something hidden where it shouldn’t be.”

“Insinuations, assumptions and suspicions,” Garak rolled his eyes. “It isn’t my fault if the vast majority of Cardassian technology is geared toward the military. This leaves very little choice in the variety of keepsakes left behind. “However, if you have anything to hide, I would strongly avoid against air conduits – you never know when a Starfleet officer will pop out of them. Or a vole, for all the difference it makes. This is the extent of what I have to say. If you were smart enough to put that weapon together, you will be smart enough to figure out a hideout of your own,” he smirked. “Now, topic change,” he required.

“As you command,” Melekor submitted, but reached out a foot under the table, stroking Garak’s leg. He couldn’t help himself, and although the touch was short, the outrage on Garak’s face was as real as the flush on his neck. “My brother wishes for me to change my name. Do you think I should?” Melekor asked as if nothing had happened.

“That’s for you to decide, and really, I don’t care!” Garak didn’t manage to hold his emotions. “Your behavior is getting quite off the line, Kel, and I won’t be held responsible for it.”

“I just thought,” he said softly, “that my only Cardassian  _ friend _ might have an opinion. But if you don’t, I guess I’m free to insist on keeping my name the way it is, even if it makes my brother incredibly confused.” The tailor sighed and rested his elbows on the table and his head on his entwined fists, thumbs locking perfectly on either side of his headspoon, along the vertical ridges of his forehead.

“This is not what I meant and you know it. Names are words, but they can be meaningful and symbolic. Yours clearly has a story tied to it, but whether it has tainted the value your name holds to you or not, only you can know,” he raised up from his hands, sliding his face up to see Melekor and rested his chin on the nails of his thumbs. “What do  _ you _ feel? Would something different be more appropriate to you? Something more androgynous?”

“It’s my name,” Melekor swallowed some emotions, lifting his glass, elbow still at the table. “If it could only be altered  _ a little _ to become something less male, and less offensive to Glain...” he sipped his water. “Why would she name me after a man who would have hated me if he’d known me?” he asked to no one in particular, “Why would anyone name someone after a person who hates them?”

“Power,” Garak answered simply. “Emotional beings, social creatures especially, are extremely sensitive to what their peers call them. Your name might have been a double-edged blade. One side to keep you from pursuing attempts to get reunited with your family, and one side to protect you from your grandfather, were it to happen. It can be harder to wish to destroy a creature of your blood bearing your own name,” he pointed. “But that is only speculation.”  He mused a bit and added. “What about Mell? It’s simple, nice on the tongue, more feminine yet reminiscent of Melekor, and not as blatantly female as Meleka, Meleny, Meliana or Miyal,” he suggested.

“I like Meleny,” Melekor realized as he listened to the options, “The rhythm is similar to Melekor, I might even be able to get used to it,” he touched the glass to his lips, then lowered it again, “Thank you, Garak,” he added with a shy smile, blinking slowly before finally indulging in his water again.

“Don’t thank me for that,” Garak diverted his eyes. “Really, don’t,” he backed in his seat as well. This was more than he felt comfortable with, he realized. “I’m not the one you should be discussing this with. Maybe it is time you return to your brother.” Melekor swallowed, saddened that he’d made Garak feel uncomfortable.

“I know you’ll never love me, and I am not asking you to,” he started off calmly, “but at least let me be your friend, and let  _ yourself _ be  _ my _ friend. Don’t brush me off like we don’t have this connection between us – because we do. And you have my gratitude, because I want you to. I ask nothing in return, other than that you accept it for the gift it is,” he swallowed his tears, refusing himself to show any emotion. “Unless... unless you really want nothing to do with me, in which case, tell me, so I can leave you at peace.” Garak closed his eyes, but only found himself locked in with his emotions and feelings. He wanted to tell the other to leave, he really wanted to. In all logic, it was the reasonable thing to do. He was all to conscious of the many dangers that laid in Melekor.

“I can’t…” he started, but then the words slipped, “I can’t ignore it, but I don’t want to be drawn to you this way. I don’t want those things to happen again,” he lied. “It’s not me, it’s not what I’m supposed to be, it’s too unsafe…” he couldn’t even convince himself if he tried. His voice was weak and he didn’t have the force to even be angry at himself for this betrayal. Something inside of him was gnawing at the ropes that pulled him together, ruining his perfect facade, corrupting his capabilities and dulling his silvertongue. Truth was, he may be good at making things up on the go, but he’d always been a terrible liar, a man whose emotions were far too obvious on his face. “It was a terrible idea and we should simply never talk about it ever again, forget it ever happened,” he repeated rather as a way to remind himself he had to let go.

There was such a distance between Garak’s voice and the words it wove that Melekor wasn’t instantly certain which of them to heed. Finally, he decided that he should listen to the words, not the voice. People’s voices didn’t always align with what they truly wanted, after all.

“But we can still be friends,” he pointed out, very gently, “and I’d like us to be. Because I’d rather have you as a friend, than as a distant memory I can’t even indulge in,” he finished his glass, and poured yet another. “I’ll leave, now. I don’t want you to be in pain, or uncomfortable. But I  _ won’t _ be the one to end our friendship. I do not intend on leaving you behind once I go to Cardassia. I’ll keep in touch, and I’ll carry a piece of you wherever I go – in my name.”

“No,” Garak forbade it. “This is not my role and I refuse it. I can be your friend, not your family,” he put the cup on the table and got up from his chair, as if discarding his drink finally freed his energy. He was clearly angry as he stepped next to Melekor, cornering him with a hand on the table and the other on the chair’s backrest. The reasons of his ire however were confused. “You are ...infuriating in your impertinence, but there are limits not to be crossed,  _ Melekor _ ,” he pronounced the name darkly. His expression however was torn by conflicted feelings and he had to close his eyes to shield them. His left hand was trailing from the backrest of the chair to the young man’s shoulder, brushing up the curve of his neck to find his jaw with the thumb, while fingers dug in the black hair. “Don’t ask too much of me.” Melekor sat perfectly still, nearly breathless – the touch alone sent shockwaves of heat and shivers through his skin. The threats that hung in the air worked wonders on his body – or curses, depending on perspective. He gulped, then raised his left hand to lay it over Garak’s hand, albeit with a feather-light touch. Like he was admiring the other’s strength by comparing it it to his own seeming lack of the same. Contrasts and symbolisms, Melekor appreciated them reflected in himself and in his… friend.

“If you want me to be Melekor, then I will be Melekor, for you,” he told him simply, still not moving, “but you  _ know  _ how I feel, and you remember, as do I, what we experienced. It’s a small part of you... but I’ll carry it with me, regardless of whether I want to or not. So why not make it a willing act?”

“You don’t  _ want _ to understand, do you?” Garak laid angry blue eyes on him, fingers clawing at his skull to grip on the hair. “I want you to be yourself,  _ whatever _ it is, and I want the same for me. To be myself. No stealing bits of each other away, no hiding parts of ourselves in the other. Wear me if you need to, but don’t tie responsibilities on me that I don’t wish to hold.”

“And what of the pieces you willingly offer?” Melekor tilted his head, looking up at Garak with dark eyes, “Am I not allowed those, either?”

“Take what you find if you will; it doesn’t have to mean it was bestowed upon you,” Garak insisted on rejecting any responsibility and walked him to the door. “You should go. Go talk with your brother. Pick a name with him. Bond with him. You need him a lot more than you need me.”

##  * * *

Glain had taken various sorts of PADDs from his bag and connected them together to allow himself to run protocoles with better speed and more efficiency in the data processing – a setup he typically used to work while commuting through Cardassian space. Connecting his system to the station computer had proven even easier than he’d expected, and he’d quickly delved for the Cardassian archives, making his way through the more familiar architecture. He spent a long time doing just that, observing the structure, how it was organized, not interacting too much with it yet. All files concerning Cardassian officers active during the Occupation had been deleted, albeit sloppily with a simple two-passes maneuver. However, Glain found they couldn’t be restored because they had been moved. Tracking the folder containing them took him a bit longer as he encountered an awful lot of identification requests, which he tried to avoid or bypass with standard advanced protocols but without success. The person who had done this knew what they were doing, and they had hoarded an impressive amount of data, sheltering it from indiscreet eyes. The young archivist couldn’t help but grin as he did each and every time he was met with such clean and efficient work.

“Nobody back home would know if I broke in, and you make for a very interesting challenge…” he allowed himself to murmur, knowing he wasn’t being spied on since the station’s new occupants apparently hadn’t found it worthwhile to reactivate the surveillance cameras inside the quarters.

But at last, Glain decided to return to the living room to get himself something to eat, and see if his sibling was back. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to find him so soon, nor looking so miserable. Glain tried not to give too much attention to the makeup and cleared his throat as he moved to the replicator. “Do you want something?” he offered politely.

“Yes,” Melekor answered near-mechanically, “a new name.”

“A new na-” Glain started to order from the replicator before realizing what he was doing. “Wait a second,” he turned over the other with questioning eyes, then back at the replicator because something – a small Bajoran sort of cake composed of many layers of crispy dough and various pastes seemingly made from seeds, nuts, beans and a lot of honey – had  _ actually _ appeared from his stupid command. He stared at it in complete disbelief then took the little plate. “This is incredible,” he had to say before returning his attention to Melekor. “So, a new name?” he repeated. “That does sound like a good idea ...but you don’t look so eager,” he pointed as he came closer.

“I found one I liked, but I’m not sure I can pick it,” Melekor pointed out, then shuffled to the side so Glain could sit next to him with his plate on his lap, “I want a name that’s similar to the one I have now, in matter of rhythm. One that is more unisex than female, but I know nothing of Cardassian names. And the one offered to me earlier was, I think, withdrawn. So now I’m nameless.”

“So, something with three syllables?” Glain asked. “And… do you want to share this?” he pointed at the cake. “I have no idea what it is.”

“It looks like cake,” Melekor observed blankly, hugging his legs and leaning his chin against his knees. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he resolved to say, “What with me being half-Betazoid, I developed empathic and telepathic abilities in my early teenage years – which were likely medically induced by my mother.” He took another breath, “I’ve been taking daily medication ever since, to get rid of those abilities. It’s an aggressive drug, developed by a Vulcan doctor and designed to attack and destroy certain parts of my brain. Mister Garak told me before I should quit taking this drug and has implied before that I might have to, once I get to Cardassia. Is that true?”

“I don’t know,” Glain admitted. “Medical substances tend to be costly and hard to come by for those who don’t have enough of a status. But such abilities would most certainly catch the interest of the voles. I mean, the Obsidian Order – it’s a harsh, nasty line of work, but it would be a fine spot for you to land in. You’d have a purpose and no ties with the family. I think.”

“The Obsidian Order?” Melekor thinned his eyes – he’d heard it before, what had Garak said? “It’s the State Intelligence, right? You don’t seem to fancy them so what makes you think it’d be nice for  _ me  _ -” he cut himself short, “You want to get rid of me,” he remembered, without the energy to be offended about it. “Can you at least  _ act _ like you hate me, so I won’t forget about it?” he added more aggressively.

“Excuse me for being a proper Cardassian civilian – our etiquette doesn’t involve being outwardly nasty to even persons we profoundly hate,” Glain hissed with a bit of annoyance. “Also, earlier you were getting  _ ideas _ that I might be attempting to flirt with you, and who is being a bit heated now, hm?” he nagged, moving his shoulders as he spoke, which also gave his neckscales a life of their own. “The Obsidian Order is our State Intelligence, yes,” he started to cut the cake in many little bits that would hopefully be easy and elegant to eat, “About anything that anyone does is duly recorded by the Order, because you never know when an information is going to end up being useful – that’s also why I try to be courteous with everybody. You never know if they’re not one of their operatives, nor do you know when you’ll need someone to plant a knife for you in someone else’s back, and you don’t want them to plant one in your back either,” he waved his knife in mannered swirls before returning it to the cake. “The Obsidian Order is simply the best at this job in the  _ entire _ quadrant. They know everything and their agents are ghosts among us – except those who make themselves more obvious on purpose. However, with their loyalty being entirely devoted to the Order, I think they aren’t allowed to keep ties to their families. I’m not an expert on the matter, mind you, and there are so many rumors about them that it is very difficult to figure out which ones are true and which ones aren’t. There’s even a large many people who believe he Order is nothing but a myth.” He sighed with contentment as he tasted a bit of cake. “I wouldn’t have entirely minded working for the Order if I’d been good enough for them, but I’m not. You, however,” he picked another little bit of cake but didn’t eat yet, “you like weapons, you have great talents for searching and retrieving data, you haven’t been raised in our family, and you have those very special abilities… You could probably do good among them if they’d see you as a potential candidate.”

Melekor was speechless, struck in an unmistakably horrified way. Horrified and sad, and he wasn’t sure which one of the two was the more dominant feeling. Obviously, the Order was the sort of instance that implied usage of practices his mother had been trying to teach him. He looked at Glain, then at the floor in front of him. Thinking. Trying to feel what he was feeling. Glain really hated him, didn’t he? He wanted to get rid of him – he wasn’t interested in getting to know him as a person. Just like with Garak, Melekor’s feelings were quite one-sided.

“And what do they do?” he asked weakly, “Do they  _ hurt _ people? I’m not good with violence.”

“Me neither,” Glain echoed with a little smile. “Sometimes, people disappear. Sometimes people have secrets that must be revealed. Taken into the light…” he repeated the words Enkem had once told him. “It’s said that the Obsidian Order is the best at obtaining information. I’d rather not think of their methods,” he shook his head. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” he offered to land a bit of cake in Melekor’s mouth, innocent green eyes flickering a little, like peaceful butterflies. “It’s quite sweet, but spicy too, both a bit crispy on the top and wet with some kind of honey in the rest. The flavour is quite manyfold, and so is the texture,” he explained. Melekor looked into those green eyes, smiled a little and accepted the bite. The flavour was a bit too sweet for what he’d wanted right then, but he ate it nevertheless, leaning back and finally setting his feet on the floor. Thinking. Swallowing. Tears finally obeyed his request and gathered under his eyelids, but he kept them there with him, in the pleasant darkness.

“Perhaps it  _ is _ for the best,” he resigned once he’d swallowed the cake. He’d have a purpose. He wouldn’t be the source of pain that pressed on his brother and father, he’d be out of their way, they’d be out of harm’s way, and everything Melekor had ever learned from his mother might finally get a purpose. He’d have to become the monster, to live the rest of his life wearing the skin of that monster. But Glain would be safe, and those precious green eyes would continue to hold sweetness and joy. Melekor... ‘Melekor’ was a stolen name, anyway. What right did he have to even wish to live out a peaceful existence, as if he was separate from the rest of himself? As if he wasn’t a murderer, a sadist and a monster, too. Perhaps even more, since he could live so easily and feel so little towards those he hurt and used.

Beside him, Glain ate silently, taking the opportunity that his sibling closed his eyes to observe him more, and more closely too. He could identify with ease traits from his father, his uncle, and some from Grandfather Melekor too, actually. The shape of the spoon was especially unmistakeable, of course. The curls at the bottom of the chin too – Glain had the same. Family jewels, they were, and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to see Melekor as a sibling. He was a stranger who happened to look a lot like a brother, but that was all. A handsome brother, smart and ...a bit disorderly. Having finished the small cake, Glain put the plate and cutlery away without a sound, and raised an equally silent hand toward the other to touch his hair, reorder it a little. But most unfortunately, his elder hadn’t collected himself entirely from the past – reviewing dreadful memories – and reacted on pure instinct.

In a single movement, he’d caught Glain’s wrist in one hand, squeezing his throat with the other. He’d somehow ended up on top of him, pinning him to the couch, and glaring at the blurry mess through the curtain of tears in his eyes, an angry, silent snarl distorting his lips. Glain would have squealed in a mix of surprise and fear, but the sound was muffled by the pressure on his throat and all he could do was to squirm and writhe helplessly. The proximity and the grip triggered a panic, and at loss, he grabbed the other’s neck with his free hand, digging his nails on either sides, underneath the scales, where it was painful, and reaped a cry of pain at once.

Or was it pleasure?

Glain was too panicked to be confused, and stayed struck in feverish tremors as the other jolted backwards, letting him go but getting his neck scratched in the same movement. Melekor clutched the aching area and stared at Glain with something between fear and shock.

“Don’t you  _ ever _ touch me like that again,” he hissed the warning.

A haunting silence followed, hardly disturbed by Glain’s muffled coughs. Melekor backed from the couch as his brother –  _ his own little brother _ – started shaking at the sight of blood on his hand. The elder couldn’t care less about the wound at his neck as guilt washed over him – Glain was so  _ small _ , so vulnerable, and those sounds that escaped him… “I’m sorry,” was all he could say, tears starting to stream down his face, “I’m sorry.”

He left the living room at once, heading to his bedroom. Glain, who no longer knew who’s fault it was nor who had done what; let instinct move him forth. All he knew as was that  _ his brother _ was in that room, and that he was bleeding. Still shaking a bit, he went to the replicator to get a first aid kit and then, taking a deep breath, entered the bedroom. “You… you need care…” he mewled in a weak voice. “It could get infected and… I… I know how to do. Please…” he approached, trying to see what Melekor was holding onto in the darkness.

“Don’t come any closer,” the elder warned his brother, grimacing through the pain, “You don’t want to see this.”

This time, the rifle was online and ready to deliver its death bite, nozzle pressed against Melekor’s throat. Glain’s eyes widened. He was terrified but didn’t back off, partly because he was petrified. As such, he couldn’t speak either, but his eyes were pleading ‘ _ No! _ ’ with all the intensity their green was capable of. He did not even blink, but water was gathering in his eyes and soon ran down. He wasn’t trained in suicide prevention – he’d ironically missed the course when he’d once sent himself in hospital care. And now, because of this, his brother was going to die. His only sibling. Half one, maybe, but the only he ever had and would ever have. The veins at his throat were pulsing erratically and soon his breath too became jagged, because he was trying not to sob and failing. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want for it to happen either, and the begging in his eyes still shone beyond the tears. His head shook ever so slightly.

“ _ No, no, please no, please don’t leave me! _ ” was the silent message his entire body read. They were interlocked like that for a good while, feelings cluttering the air like mist – Melekor knew, even though he couldn’t pick them up.

“I only ever hurt people,” he wanted to justify what he was doing, “I thought, perhaps, it would be different with you, with my father. That I wouldn’t hurt you. That I  _ could  _ help, that maybe I could even be something good,” he swallowed and felt his windpipe press against the weapon’s unforgiving shell, “But nothing is going as I wanted to. I’m a monster, and I don’t deserve a family.”

“I’ve- I’ve always wanted a sib- sibling,” Glain managed to hiccup. His face was a mess but he’d never cared so little about his looks than in this moment. “You’re the only one- only one I’ll ever have. Don’t make me the reason you died!” he cried. “I’ll never forgive you if you do this, and I’ll never forgive myself ...and neither will Father,” he realized and broke up in full out sobbing. “You- you can’t do this to me!” went cries that belonged to another timeline but felt all too present. “I’m sorry…!” he collapsed onto his knees, holding his face but still staring at Melekor, still unable to break eye-contact. His breath was a panic, but soon, it turned into voice forming into a song.

 

“I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’lug – ek’lug,   
_ Three children go to the water – the water, _

I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’lug ot’Kerdalen, _  
_ _ Three children go to the water in Kerdalen, _

Ilõu linirúy, ilõu si’linirú, ilou i’linirú, i’linirú roep ot’Kerdalen, _  
_ _ One swims, one drowns, one cries, cries a river in Kerdalen, _

Ilõu lukti, ilõu si’lukt, ilõu súzú, odosúzú ot’Kerdalen.” _  
_ _ One lives, one dies, one lays, lays forever in Kerdalen. _

 

“I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’ram – ek’ram, _  
_ _ Three children go to the desert – the desert, _

I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’ram ot’Varnikar   
_ Three children go to the desert in Varnikar, _

Ilõu baaúy, ilõu si’baaú, ilõu i’baaú, i’baaú dalep ot’Varnikar, _  
_ _ One itches, one builds, one digs, digs a canyon in Varnikar, _

Ilõu lukti, ilõu si’lukt, ilõu noú, odonoú ot’Varnikar.”   
_ One lives, one dies, one rests, rests forever in Varnikar. _

 

“I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’kam – ek’kam, _  
_ _ Three children go to the mountain – the mountain, _

I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’kam ot’Melorna, _  
_ _ Three children go to the mountain in Melorna, _

Ilõu i’dunú, ilõu si’dunú, ilõu dunúy, dunúy kanep ot’Melorna, _  
_ _ One climbs, one falls, one builds, builds a cabin in Melorna, _

Ilõu lukti, ilõu si’lukt, ilõu dasúy, ododasúy ot’Melorna.” _  
_ _ One lives, one dies, one fests, fests forever in Melorna. _

 

“I’pirõu’falõu vadekti ek’Kerdalen ek’Varnikar ek’Melorna, _  
_ _ Three children go to Kerdalen, to Varnikar, to Melorna, _

“I’pirõu’falõu, ipirõu’falõu...   
_ Three children, three children… _

“Ot’Kerdalen ot’Varnikar ot’Melorna.” _  
_ _ In Kerdalen, Varnikar and Melorna. _ ”

Melekor had turned the rifle off, lowering it slowly until it landed on the floor in front of him with a thud. He couldn’t do this to Glain, nor to his father – he could have, to himself. But not to them. His shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to wilt, tears still streaming down his face, but silently so. He knew of ways to use rhymes as a tool in conditioning, especially conditioning geared towards handling traumatic experiences. Because of this, he let the steadiness of it comfort him the same way it did his brother. He eventually calmed enough that he’d stopped crying, and instead just sat there, useless while his brother crept closer to tend to his wound, murmuring to himself the last verses of the rhyme. Melekor had to wonder what kind of mess he was to force his younger brother to take care of him like this. It should be the other way around. But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He’d been so close to death. So close to violating Glain one last time. But he’d chosen not to, he’d chosen to live, and that choice didn’t end just because the rifle was on the floor by his feet. He’d have to re-make it every day from now and on, because the temptation was back. The temptation was back, and this time he doubted Garak would want to help him chase it away – it would be nicer for Garak if he died, after all. No more awkward meetings and clingy conversations.

Glain stretched the care for as long as he could, to remove all traces of the incident, but he knew very well that while the harm in the flesh had gone, the mental harm wasn’t.

“Father wanted me to give you a chance,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “He wanted me to meet you… I didn’t think I could actually want it, but you’re my blood, my flesh… We come from the same world, from the same father and this is a lot more unique than I ever knew,” he looked into the black eyes with desperation still. They were so dark. Two wells he couldn’t fathom. “Tell me what you need. A name? A hand to hold? Tell me everything… I want to know you, I want to ...to learn why I love you and who it is I love,” he laced his arms around him. “You’re my only sibling… How could I think I could ever hate you?” he buried his face in his neck, seeking for warmth and protection, and defending it too.

“I love you, little brother,” Melekor mumbled into his hair, lulling them both but wishing he had never pursued his father. Glain’s suffering was his responsibility.

At last, they made their way back to the living room, away from the rifle, although not away from guilt.

“Did I hurt you?” Melekor asked, looking at his brother as they sat next to the couch rather than on it.

“It’s fine, really,” Glain shuffled to sit more comfortably on his brother’s lap and locked his legs around his waist, wanting to stay close. “Just… never do this again. Threatening to take your life, I mean,” his throat got dryer at the mention of the act. “I need you and there’s no going back, right? I… I know it’s going to be difficult, the next days, the next months, the next years if I know! But I’m going to be there for you. I promise. I… I’ve been trying to arrange a marriage for myself to secure my position,” he admitted. “If anything were to go wrong, you know… So whatever happens, it’s going to be fine. I’ll take work at home if I need to…” Easier said than done, of course, what with his mother’s condition, but he didn’t want to think of her right now. “I’ll do all I can. You are my family and we are Cardassians,” he reached to lay a kiss on the spoon of Melekor’s forehead and smelled the scent of his hair. His brother’s hair.

“Those are things I can’t ask of you to do for me,” Melekor whispered in a broken voice, “I’m a burden, to you and to Father, and I don’t want to abuse your... your sense of obligation. You have a career,” he leaned back to look at the other with encouragement, “I want you to be successful. And I  _ don’t _ want you to arrange a marriage that won’t make you happy just because I’m... what I am,” he sighed. “I want to come with you to Cardassia, but I don’t want your father to recognize me as his own. And to do this, I have to make sure Reyal won’t ever get to be a threat – all I need to figure out is what one could either blackmail or pursue him for. Perhaps you could even do that yourself, I bet it would grant you satisfaction.”

“Honestly?” Glain raised an eyeridge, “I’ve had a project since last year to try and pay someone to go to Bajor and retrieve either the files or the computers, but that turned short when I learned that Cardassian equipments left behind have been claimed by the Bajorans, and they are now using it to their own profit. Of course, those aliens are certainly overall too uneducated to use more than the surfacing functions of our sophisticated operation systems, but this means the data might still be safe somewhere.”

“Maybe Garak knows,” Melekor muttered. “He’s  _ very _ smart, and he’s been very helpful so far,” he couldn’t help but get some more warmth in his voice.

“Garak?” Glain repeated, his voice hardening in contrast. He wasn’t about to tell about Nilan, this very innocent man who looked over his shoulder as he worked on the circuitry of a PADD – Iltarel had told him not to do that; creating an offline comnet could count as terrorism, but Glain hadn’t listened. He’d lied when Nilan asked what he was doing, and Nilan seemingly bought his words. “Garak…” Glain said again and closed his eyes, letting memories resurface.

“ _ I’m not staying for a very long time, but I’ll be back then and again, little one, _ ” Enkem had once grinned against Glain’s neck. The sound of his voice travelled through his skin, resonating in the youth’s headspoon, intoxicating. The teenager caressed the arms of his lover. Enkem was older, handsome with this dark tan of his, and he was the most intelligent man Glain had ever met. His wits were quick and bright, and the youngster felt chosen and flattered by his attention. They kissed. They made love. Glain really believed in this relation. Glain said silly things, things like “I’d do anything for you, I’d go anywhere for you.” How could he imagine Enkem would take his naive words for face value?

There was a room, too dark, too clean, too cold. Shapes moved around him, non-descript. Glain couldn’t focus. He just huddled to himself. Enkem disappeared from his life, and so did Nilan. It took three months for Glain to return to the Institute, return to a normal life. Or at least, a more normal life.

“Do you even know who Garak really is?” Glain asked Melekor without feelings, only question.

“No,” Melekor answered instantly, rubbing his brother’s back slowly, “I don’t need to. It’s enough that I know what he’s like. The rest... I don’t need to know it, nor do I think I want to,” he smiled, carefully making distance, placing a hand on each of his brother’s cheeks, so that he could look into those green eyes, “But I  _ do _ want to know you.” Right, the least Melekor knew about Garak, Nilan, or whomever else the man might have been, the safer he was.

“I’m just an archivist,” Glain said, blushing a little as he felt like he’d been asked to disrobe in ways he’d rarely done. “Alright, maybe I’m not  _ just _ an archivist, I… The truth is… I guess the truth is I’m a flawed person. A fraud of a person… I wish what I had to show you were better, I wish I could make you proud – I’ve tried to do all I could to make my sibling proud of me for the day I would have one, but that day never came. I lost faith in the idea that you might ever exist. I failed myself and I failed you,” his eyelids fell down his green eyes. “I’m sorry… I hope I can still make it up to you,” he looked at him again with a weak smile.

“Maybe I’m not Cardassian enough to be sufficiently unimpressed,” Melekor smiled a slanted smile.

Eventually, Glain decided they were hungry and tasked his sibling with replicating some meal for them while he went to hide the rifle somewhere in his room, because there was  _ no way out of a trial _ he’d let Melekor anywhere near it again anytime soon. Melekor agreed. He felt like a ghost walking in his own skin. When he’d gotten over to the replicator he wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat anything at all, so he ended up ordering two servings of sem’hal stew and a bottle of yamok sauce, which he placed on the table, taking care to place the spoons perfectly by the plates, and the glasses too, along with a bottle of crystal clear water. Then, he went to the bathroom, where he studied himself in the mirror. What he saw was horrifyingly messy, and he spent a good while combing his hair, cleaning off stray makeup, refreshing himself with a new coat of colors. He made them more confident and vivid now. If Melekor wanted to die, at least Meleny could live, couldn’t she?

He was tempted to put on his wig, but ultimately decided against it – he’d let his hair grow, instead.

“You’re ...rather good with makeup,” Glain noted when he came back to sit at the table, trying to estimate if Melekor had a favorite chair so he could take another one instead – he noted that one had a leg that was a bit bent. “So, where did you learn about makeup?” he asked, to restart the conversation. He should have seen the answer coming – “Has  _ Garak _ done other things I should know of?” he frowned protectively. Melekor smiled a bit slyly, spooning his food and dedicating his attention to that task rather than to his curious brother.

“When I quit my job to pursue my father, the first person I spoke to about it was Garak,” he told Glain as if he was reciting an only mildly interesting news article, “he happened to be in need of something, and so we agreed on a trade. I asked him to help me find my father, and he did,” he looked up at Glain, at last, “We watched one of his trials together. And then he told me I have a brother. Who most likely wouldn’t welcome me,” he concluded that and tucked the spoon in his mouth.

“Well, he was wrong,” Glain nagged smugly. “So, what about your name?” he smiled. “I could load a database of Cardassian names. We could try out some, see if something feels more appropriate to you?”

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” he laid the spoon on the plate and his hands in his lap, “though I’d like one similar to what I already have. I... I like Melekor as a name. The circumstances of it might not be very pleasant, but it’s… it’s always been mine.”

Glain could understand. He’d sometimes had issues with his own name when he was a child and other kids teased him that he could never do his duty to Cardassia as a soldier because if he ever were to become Glinn like his uncle, ‘Glinn Glain’ would sound ridiculous. Of course, he did tell them off, saying he’d be known as Glinn Rokat in that case (like his uncle Enjam), but kids were kids and logic never stood where a weakness could be hammered in with blunt cruelty. So Glain had to embrace it, embrace the violence, the pain, and see beyond it. Embrace those who hurt him, see the weakness of the feeble, primitive tools they were using against him, and forgive them to come out the most of honorable of them all. In the end, he’d found he actually quite liked his name.

“Let me take one of my PADDs, I’ll be back in a second,” he said and got up. “I’m used to multitask while eating, I hope you don’t mind,” he added then walked to his room.

Quickly, he was back and started to gather lists, reading names suggested by the computer cell. It started with propositions closer to the syllables of Melekor – Mell, Meleka, Lekanir, Lekora, Lemenor, Kori, Korani, Korelm, Korima – then expanded further – Elem, Ekelain, Emel, Enemal, Kemiralin, Lekem, Leki, Lekima, Lekmin, Leyal, Lil, Limek, Malir, Malkara, Manali, Maral, Marani, Mayal, Melain, Melanka, Melarin, Meleny, Meliana, Melikanir, Melorna, Mena, Menima, Melyal, Mil, Mila, Miluna, Mikani, Miral, Miyal…

Glain could appreciate the simplicity of Mell and the musicality of Lemenor and Lekora, but liked the sound of Ekelain, Elem, and Emel, though he reckoned the connection with Melekor was probably more evident to the computer than to his brother. He’d not expected Melorna to show up in the list, and said he liked it, but that it was also because of a song in which Melorna was a happy place.

“I know,” Melekor answered softly at the last sentiment, “you were singing it earlier.” It was an extensive list, and it was difficult to think of each and every name when they all came so fast. Nevertheless, he found the shorter and softer ones to be nicer, and Meleny was still in there... But no, that name, it belonged with Garak. If he picked it, he’d tie bonds between them that the other didn’t wish for. He couldn’t do that.

“What about Elem or Emel?” he asked finally, “They sound like they could belong to either gender, and they are soft and courteous. If you had to pick one of those for me, which one would you go with?”

“Ah, it’s hard to pick only one!” Glain held his head. He looked at his brother, squinting and repeating either name in his head, and murmuring them, tilting his head to a side and then the other. Finally he decided to simply associate even numbers to the first, odd numbers to the last, and glanced at the last digit of the hour in the corner of the PADD. Six.

“Elem, then,” he said. “Elem… Ee-Lem,” he spoke each syllable distinctly, as to be certain. “It’s close to Elam and Elim, but it’s the one closest to Melekor,” he nodded. “Elem. Do you like it?” he smiled and Melekor tried to think of himself as Elem. It was somewhat working – it took a bit of effort to try it on, like getting in new clothes for the first time, when the fabric hadn’t yet been softened by the first wash.

“I think I can get used to it,” he finally mused, smiling a little, “I like it the way you say it, yes.”

“And I like to say it,” Glain replied giddily. “Elem. I like how it starts with a higher pitch and then decreases to something lower and calmer. It has power and assurance to it,” he said and mimicked the soundwave, rising his hand with elegance and setting it flat on the table, like a fact that couldn’t be denied. “It’s not like Elim, that keeps on fluttering in the air, not like Elam that swings away,” he kept on gesturing to illustrate the names. “No, Elem,” he put his hand back on the table, “it embodies determination, tenacity, resilience, a strength that doesn’t need to make itself bolder than it is. It is calm, powerful, down to the earth. Are you… like this too?” he asked.

“Possibly,” he considered the question, “I haven’t thought that much about how I am, I’m not sure how well I know myself. I mean, I only just found out I’m not at all what I thought I was. But if you like this name, I will have it,” he smiled and sipped his water, “How do you feel about your own name?”

“Ah!” Glain looked away, taken by surprise. “I… I quite like it,” he smiled with a bit of embarrassment. “It rises up in the air like a chime and has a joyful sound to it, a bit naive maybe, but it’s simple and sweet. Down to the essential, though it bears a complexity in its transcription. It’s more complex than it sounds. And it makes me think of ‘culain’ which are little animals that can live in trees or in the desert, lithe and agile, with a very soft coat of fur and a long bushy tail to keep their eggs warm when they’re not in their pouch. They’re so cute, and not so uncommon in the city” he said fondly, then cleared his voice and straightened up a bit, gathering himself to a more formal and composed attitude. “I like my name,” he summed up briefly, trying to be more serious and manly.

“Sounds like some sort of squirrel,” Melekor figured, then hastened to add, “the animal, not your name,” he cleared his throat and took some sips of water, “I used to have a pet squirrel on Ferenginar, Lyx. She had to stay behind when we left; mother wouldn’t let me keep her.” He felt just as small in the present as he had then, shrinking in his chair. “She gave me a beetle back on Trill to try and make up for it, but beetles aren’t the same, even though Argon lived for three years and became quite big. Did you have any pets as a child?”

“We had topals; sorts of amphibian lizards,” Glain smiled. “They are very pretty, their skin can display a lot of different colors that they use to communicate. They reproduce a lot, but eat a lot of their offspring too, thankfully. It was fascinating to see them metamorphose, from eggs to sorts of shiny little slugs that grow limbs and a tail,” he recalled. “One of them grew to become adult, but they can be very territorial animals, so I got to have it in a new vivarium in my bedroom so the parents wouldn’t end up killing it when rut would come – individuals are all male and female at the same time, but once they’ve paired with a mate they stay together for life. We didn’t want things to end sadly and I was all the more happy to have Silit just for me,” he chuckled. “It loved to sleep here, in my neck when I laid on my bed,” he showed the hollow above the collarbone. “Then puberty came and it became awkward so I stopped doing that,” he looked down, unsure of whether it was or wasn’t good to have mentioned this detail. “All of them lived a good life,” Glain assured, “until two years ago. It was a sad year. First Grandfather died of an accident – he tried to repair a PADD himself and must have touched something about the power cells that discharged the energy in him and killed him. Then Grandmother died too; she was tired. And our topals got sick from some sort of flu, and we couldn’t save them…” he sighed. “It felt very lonely suddenly.” Melekor nodded in recognition, leaning forward a little to pat his brother’s arm.

“I’m so sorry, Glain,” he whispered in a low voice, then took his hand a bit more gently, “Does sound like you had some sweet moments with those pets – have you ever thought about getting new ones? I mean, I can understand if you haven’t; after my cat, Trama, died,” Melekor steeled himself, because the memory of his own helplessness as he held her in his arms was quite painful, “I never got back to keeping pets.

“I haven’t either,” the archivist squeezed his brother’s hand a bit too, “I wanted to see the world some more, hear different dialects of Kardasi, see different racial types, different people… Maybe find myself too. And get breaks,” he admitted. “It’s not always easy since mother became sick ...especially since she stopped remembering me and started confusing me with Father instead,” he got a bit stiffer as a way to keep composed. Was it a proper topic to share with someone who’d just attempted to commit suicide? He had no idea. It was different for everybody, wasn’t it?

“I’ve missed having a pet, but I was too afraid of not taking good enough care of it,” he stuck to the original topic. “I once… at the Institute. Another student, plotted against me and I was sloppy… If not for my friends Lukor and Sulek, Silit would have died,” he admitted. “Of course I got back at Milas Divak, the culprit, but it broke something. And I was probably afraid of my mother’s illness too, afraid another year of death would come, so I made friends instead,” he said and caught the other’s hand in both his own, caressing his fingers gently. “People tend to like me. Sometimes it feels like it’s too easy. Sometimes it makes it hard to trust them, and sometimes not.”

“We have that in common,” Melekor remarked softly, “I know how to make people like me, how to make people care for me. But I can only think of two persons who were my friends – one is dead, and the other is now a Joined Trill, and he could just as well be dead, what with how much he changed,” he smiled a little and rubbed Glain’s thumb, his voice turning more fond. “I’m trying my best to befriend Garak. He’s so very nice, intelligent, handsome and well-spoken,” a tint rose underneath his neck scales, “Isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t recommend befriending this kind of person,” Glain disagreed grimly, but Melekor didn’t care that Garak was a dangerous person and the youth had to give up trying to change his mind. It wasn’t important, not now. Instead, they took the couch to Melekor’s bedroom so they could both sleep in there. The elder insisted that Glain take the bed, and so the youth obliged, getting naked and safe under the sheets while the other had his shower. As they finally laid, each in their bedding, Melekor raised his voice to innocently ask Glain about his love life – women. Anyone he had his eye on for enjoinment? The youth cringed in embarrassment.

“I’ve considered it with a friend, yes, but… I’m… not best fit… with women,” he tried to phrase himself in a socially-acceptable way. “You know, Glinn Reyal… He arranged that I’d meet his daughter, Delna, and she was quite sweet to me – I’ve  _ always _ been good friend with girls. I didn’t know she was his daughter at first, because we were using our Institute titles – Five Lidek for me, Three Mikar for her,” he recalled. “And when we found out, well, she didn’t seem like she liked her father much anyway. She was some two years older than me and… well, she ended up coming home, and one night,  _ by complete misfortune _ ,” he suggested something had been schemed, “she once had to stay with us at home. And.” He buried his face in the pillow, so his voice came out muffled though audible, “She went in  _ my _ bed during the night, and at first I thought it was because she was cold and homesick, you know… Why  _ else _ would she come?” he threw an outraged glance at the other. “I didn’t even think it weird when she joined me under the blanket, naked, because, so was I. She hugged me at first, I let her do and then… Then her lips and her hands went places, and I screamed so much that Father and Melekor – I mean Grandfather – came in running. Then Mother came too and Father took Delna to stay at Keelani’s house instead,” he sighed. “I was only fourteen, I’d never been with anyone yet because I preferred to just stay friends with girls and… And I hadn’t imagined it was possible to… with boys,” he flushed. “It took for one of them to outright tell me…” he bit his lips. “On even days, Father says it’s not a problem, then on odd days he laments that I haven’t gotten a wife and children yet,” he grunted.

“I see,” Melekor said simply, closing his eyes on himself, “I’ve been fortunate enough to have very little problems at that age – all that happened was that I fell in love with a friend. A very one-sided affair. But I was never sexually attracted to him,” he shrugged, then pulled his blanket up over his shoulders, “Have you considered turning yourself into the girl?” he finally asked, glancing quickly at the bed, “I mean, there ought to be others like me, who are... female in body but not necessarily entirely so in mind and representation.”

“No!” Glain lashed out, then softened, “I’m sorry… I mean, no. I never considered it seriously and I don’t want to, no… I thought I’d enjoin a girl who likes girls, that we’d have our affairs each on our side,” he sighed and looked at Melekor – Elem, rather. “I don’t know… I had a friend who had female organs but was notated as male. Eventually he had to become a female anyway so he could enjoin a man. He died while pregnant… Slipped in the Gebalt Hill of Coranum, it was ruled as an accident, but…” He sighed. “Those things are complicated. I don’t know…” he said again, “But I find you beautiful, Elem. I could be with someone like you, someone with… this sort of ambivalence you have,” he whispered drowsily. “For me… I’m a fertile male, so a man is what I have to be, and it’s what I feel I am…” he rolled over his back, but turned his face to his sibling again. “Elem… what do you feel when you wear makeup?”

“Beautiful,” he answered, closing his eyes on the ceiling, “it makes me feel... free and beautiful. Like a part of me that has been kept back for so long finally gets to come out. It makes me feel like... Elem,” he felt that he was smiling. He had to get used to that name, now – it still felt a bit strange to go through all of these changes. To become, not someone else, but himself. Or herself. Whichever self.

“It fits you well,” Glain smiled and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Elem.”


	26. Day 24 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Cardassian and Vulcan-Trill reunion in Garak's Clothier

##  Day 24

 

Come morning, Elem woke up first, stretching a bit on the uncomfortable sofa. Once up, he wrapped his bedsheets around himself, and went over to the wardrobe, where he had stashed away his clothes, realizing too late that the only really clean piece of clothing he had left was the dress Garak had adamantly given him. In the half-light of the bathroom, Elem took a shower, touching his body as to get to know it again. He felt the masculine curve of his waist, the hip bones pressing against the skin, the scales leading down to his discreet penil slit, and then, after some contemplation, the area below, behind the soft bulge of his infertile testes, where something had been stolen from him. He tried to imagine what it would have felt like, had he been as he’d been born – if it had been soft like his male slit, if there had been a frame of scales there, dry or moist...

The dress fit even better than he recalled – it draped against his figure like a second skin, enhancing features of his body that made him more feminine, more in-between. It was almost as if it had been made specifically for him – he liked to pretend it was, still very close to the soft dreams sleep were made of. He did his makeup, too, with a touch of those soft dreams – subtle but evident. Smiling, Elem left the room to prepare breakfast for two – tea, boiled eggs, a light serving of hasperat and those breadsticks that Glain had enjoyed the day before. He set it all on the table in an attempt at perfection, then went into his bedroom, and simply stood in the doorway, watching his brother sleep.  _ He had a brother _ . A confused brother, as he woke up to see the woman watching him. It took him some rubbing his eyes and blinking to remember where he was, with whom, and to come to the conclusion that his hair was curling in too many direction for the day to start.

A shower and lots of combing later, the siblings could finally enjoy a breakfast together. It started terribly as Glain chose to inquire about the dress in the most awkward manner – he’d realized too late that it hadn’t been so smooth of him to say he’d never seen “a man in a dress.” Elem tried to be conciliant despite the sting of pain, but didn’t care to spare him, bringing Garak into the conversation once again. He thought Glain was going to choke when he told of the night when the tailor had them crossdress, but the amusement was worth it.

“I can’t believe he… Oh, if Father knew!” Glain shook his head and had to put his hair back behind his ear. “Garak,” he raised his index, “does not have  _ your _ grace. Even  _ I _ am more graceful, and Father too – but Father would  _ never _ wear a dress. Oh, this is so outrageous and embarrassing! What are you making me say, really!?” his neck was getting quite flushed. “Is Garak intersexed too?” he had to ask, too confused and far from home to remember his manners.

“No, he just happens to like dresses – I mean, he makes them. You have to know what you create intimately to do it well – wouldn’t you think the same of a chef tasting the food they cook?” Elem told with lips that were nearly turning into a smile, “But if you think you’re more graceful than he is, maybe you should consider it as well? Maybe we should visit him after we’re done here, put you in a dress.”

“This is outrageous!” Glain looked at Elem with panic. “I would never! And especially not in front of him! He’s a terrible person!” But Elem maintained his idea to put a dress on his brother and Glain didn’t have the heart to refuse. “I want to make you happy,” he decided. “You’re my only sibling ...and you’re my elder too,” he reckoned. “It still feels weird… You feel more like a friend somehow. I don’t know if it’s what siblings are supposed to feel like…”

“I think what you’re supposed to feel, or rather, what I feel is... love, warmth, a need to be gentle,” Elem smiled shyly and finished his hasperat quickly, “I feel that for Father too, even though I never met him. I always kept a photo of him, here,” he put a hand to his chest, then stuck the fingers inside the lining, to withdraw the little locket, opening the lid to show the photograph of his father, reaching it towards Glain. “My mother gave it to me in exchange for the promise that I’d never try to find him. There are certain promises you can’t ask a child to make, really...” Glain looked at the photo with fondness.

“It’s amazing how much he and grandfather looked alike at the same age… It’s like our cousin Nima and her mother. Enjam secretly kept photos of everybody; he showed me some of Aunt Meridine as a child, and she could have passed as Nima or as a twin! – They’re dead…” he added more discreetly in case Elem felt like inquiring about them. “Such an old photo,” he returned to the topic. The paper had aged, making it hard to see all of the details with great precision, but the man on it couldn’t be mistaken. “Father was always very good at board games, I think he might have been better even than Grandfather when he was this age – he won some competitions of kotra – but then he stopped. I never knew why, but now I guess I understand,” he sighed and gave the locket back. “He’s never seen you but he loves you, probably like you love him already. It’s the instinct. When we recognize our own, it’s stronger than anything.”

When the breakfast was over, Glain offered to comb his sibling’s hair, and Elem accepted to let him care. It seemed like the sort of things siblings could do for each other and the experience was rather pleasant although he felt infantilized – perhaps partly because Glain spread an oily bodily substance on his hair.

“Parents have to do this for children,” he explained, although he didn’t explain why they had to do it. Maybe something about group odor? Because there was a scent, yes, and it was a pleasant one, at least.

Then they discussed what color Glain should choose for his dress, and at last they set out, holding arms – to show they were united in a way aliens would understand, Glain had suggested. In return, he followed his brother’s advice to ignore any unwelcome reaction. And there were many. Stares, whispers, fingers pointed at them, mocking laughters… Even security officers seemed annoyed by them, as if they were seeking for trouble or being otherwise provocative. A drunken Bajoran had the nerve to yell loudly after them and try to follow them to ask if they were deaf when they didn’t react to him. Security didn’t react to that behavior. Instead, it was the Ferengi bartender who recalled the man’s attention.

At last, they reached the shop and could relax in its quietness. Elem seeked refuge in one of the changing stalls, taking a seat to still himself, and started to realize he’d neglected his hypospray. He swore inwardly but stayed there while Garak approached Glain, professional as ever.

“Can your local tailor do something for you?” he asked. Glain tensed and found himself rather incapable of speaking at first, so he just gestured in the general direction of his brother.

“Coming here was… If you’d just give Elem a moment,” he stuttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Elem,” Glain repeated. “My brother.”

“Elem,” Garak echoed more slowly. “Elem?” he stared at where the other was. “Well, that’s a very pretty name,” he nodded, though he seemed quite disturbed.

“People change, is that a surprise to you?” Glain squinted.

“No, of course not,” Garak folded his arms and held his chin. “Elem… How did you end up with this fine name?” he looked alternatively at the brothers, unsure which one he should ask.

“My brother chose it for me,” Elem came out of the stal slightly paler than he’d entered and went to stand next to his brother, to be some sort of support. He could feel Garak’s somewhat alarmed mood, but decided to pin it on Glain. “I hope you’re not offended I didn’t go with one of your suggestions,” he added with a smirk.

“Oh, no, certainly not!” Garak spread his hands to either side of him at once, then joined them in a small clap. “Now please, is there anything I can do or would you rather just ...take a look around the shop?” Glain glanced at his brother then decided to speak, clear and confident. If they were going to do this, he might as well boldly go.

“The quality of your handcraft was so fit to be noticed by my demanding eyes that envy grew on me. A dress is what I want, and I want it black and shimmering like the universe around us. Make me into the night sky.” Elem would be the white dotting the distance.

“Oh,” Garak said. “Then by all means, be my guest, young Mister Rokat,” he swung his arm to the changing stall. “I will need your measurements.” Before they disappeared behind the curtain, he felt Elem nudge his mind to let him know of his current state. The tailor’s shoulders slumped a little and he shielded his mind as best as he could while picking his measuring tool, ready to start. Glain had already started taking off his shirt. “This isn’t actually necessary,” Garak interrupted.

“I think it is,” Glain replied while setting the cloth on a stool, about perfectly folded even though he’d practically just dropped it – even Garak had to appreciate the move, however embarrassed he was about the situation.

“As you wish,” he pinched his lips, looking down while the other took off his shoes and pants, keeping just his underwear. Glain lifted his arms, wide open, the inside of them facing the tailor. A residual scar lined his left wrist like a tale of near-death story. Garak said nothing and set to feel nothing either, only coming to measure. When he lowered the arms down the sides to measure their length, his eyes fell on the young man’s belly, which left side was marked with eight white dashes that would almost have been delicate if they didn’t tell of insane violence.

“Nilan,” Glain whispered, staring at him, “did you betray  _ him _ ?” The tailor froze, looking at him with slight confusion. “Someone betrayed him. Was it you?”

“No,” Garak finally answered.

“Is  _ he _ still alive?” the youth asked further.

“Let’s trade, maybe,” the spy decided to take the chance. “What’s become of  _ her? _ ” he asked just as cryptically.

“How interesting that you’d ask,” the youth sneered, “considering she cut contact with me  _ because of you _ . After what you did to her husband, she forbade me and Kel to meet ever again. Because of you, Garak, I lost my friend,” he planted daggers in the man, “because  _ she’d _ mistaken me for a vole of your kind. Now tell me. Is  _ he _ alive?”

“I actually don’t know,” Garak muttered. “I wasn’t the one to decide his fate.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“He wasn’t betrayed, he brought it all on his own,” he hissed. “He was sentimental and he was sloppy!” Glain stared at him for a moment but found no lie in those blue eyes. That didn’t make things any less unsatisfactory.

“Well, you were sentimental and sloppy too, weren’t you?” Glain raised his eyeridges. “And now, you’re a vole in a cage, still in the night, but lost in space.”

“How poetic,” the tailor returned the same contempt. “You were promising, Glain… but you must have inherited your father’s sensitivity after all. Treasure it, because that’s what earned you to go on with your life,” he found the strength to soften his words and his gaze. The young man was surprised and somewhat disarmed as a result. “Maybe we should switch to more professional questions about ...the dress you wish me to create for you.”

“I want it black, and with gloved sleeves,” Glain agreed to the topic change. “Black like Enkem, tight like his embrace, and intense like his love.”

“I take good notice,” Garak held his dramatic gaze for a moment before turning away. “You can put on your clothes, it’s over.”

##  * * *

The travel had been a bit strange in a way. Savras was not on the Levossa, and when Timun asked why she wasn’t there, her colleagues only said she was given another day off for some obligation of some sort, but nobody knew what it was exactly, only that Jederza was annoyed about it but couldn’t have refused to give it even if he’d wanted to.

“Maybe she went to Mirna?” Dziana suggested.

“Yeah,  maybe,” Timun smiled, although he doubted it; family visits were quite strictly regulated in such cases, but not in  _ that _ fashion. Weird. Very weird. It just didn’t feel like Savras, but he didn’t let the feeling get the best of him. Soon they would be on DS9 and Timun already knew what he’d do first: take Dzi to Garak to order a galaxy purple dress for her.

 

Dziana glanced everywhere as they walked through the Promenade, curious of the architecture more than she was of the people. She asked many questions,  most of which Timun didn’t have the answer to, but eventually they made it to the Clothier and came in. It had changed a little since last time, Timun noted – Garak had rearranged it some, and it was quite pleasant. The Vulcan was searching for him when his eyes set on the Cardassian in the white dress, sitting near a drawn curtain. He blinked in surprise but came forth, dragging Dziana along as he was still holding her hand.

“Melekor?” he spoke his name with slight disbelief and a widening large smile, joy washing all over his face and body, like a vibration of happiness. “You look  _ splendid! _ ” he had to compliment, to which Melekor smiled. Then Timun squatted and turned to the little girl, and Melekor’s smile vanished into a stiffer expression – he wasn’t comfortable around kids. “Dzi, this is my and Savras’s very amazing friend, Melekor,” Timun told her. Her eyes shone at once.

“The mechanic!” she got excited. “You used to work on the Levossa!” she turned to him like he was a hero.

“Yes, I did. Don’t tell me the plasma injectors are malfunctioning again?”

“Not that I know of,” Timun shrugged. “Mel,” he got a little more giddy, standing up again and setting both his hands on Dziana’s shoulders, to both present her and prevent her from getting improperly closer yet, “I have the great pleasure to introduce you to Dziana. She is my daughter,” he beamed with intense pride. Elem looked between Timun and the child several times, raising an eyeridge.

“You didn’t tell me you have a child,” he felt almost betrayed.

“Because I didn’t know either!” Timun laughed. “I learned only just a few days ago, and I still have to go thank Julian – I mean, Doctor Bashir – for his help in figuring this all out. And introduce Dzi to him of course,” he grinned. Before either of them could add anything more, the curtain opened and Garak and Glain appeared. Timun looked at them, almost startled.

“Many Cardassians!” he let out from surprise, switching from Trillian to English. Glain too was surprised, looking between Elem and Timun with confusion. As he did so, he saw Dziana and softened into a small “aww,” then returned to even more confusion.

“Mister Lykes,” Garak greeted beside him. “You are back already…”

“Yes! Remember this dress I wanted to commission?” he smiled brightly.

“For your sister?” the tailor remembered.

“Yes…” the situation suddenly got a little bit awkward – Melekor was clearly wondering  _ how _ Timun could be both the father and brother of the girl and if it was as gross as it sounded. “Well, I hope you work with smaller models too,” he glanced at Dziana.

“If size mattered, Quark wouldn’t pass me any order,” Garak nodded, trying not to make the situation more embarrassing than needed. “I will need to take your measurements,” he kneeled enough to speak to the little girl on a more equal level. “Are you familiar with this?”

“Yes. I’ll stand still,” she nodded, rather pleased for this real occasion to practice the Federal common tongue she’d been learning in immersion at school. “Are we doing this now?”

“I suppose we could,” the tailor looked at Timun, inquiring for his opinion.

“I trust you,” he smiled and let them disappear behind the curtain, turning back to the other two. “So, are you two friends or is it just a coincidence? I’m Timun Lykes, by the way,” he offered his hand to Glain. The Cardassian looked at it, then just laid his palm flat against Timun’s with the obvious feeling that they were both doing it wrong.

“I am Glain Rokat. Elem’s brother,” he then set his hand on Melekor’s shoulder.

“Elem?” Timun blinked. “You didn’t tell me you had a brother!” he chastised him as he’d been chastised before. “And what with the name?”

“Glain didn’t like my name, so we decided to pick another one. A more feminine one,” he explained in an almost detached voice, still squinting up at Timun, “ _ Why _ are you here?”

“Two reasons. I’m offering a little trip to my daughter, for one, and for two…” he shrugged, setting his fists on his hips in near offense, “I came back for you, sweet idiot that you are! I’ve arranged things so your mother can no longer blackmail me. If I’m going to be your doctor, it’ll be because  _ I _ agree to it.” He bent forth a bit, “And talking about that, you forgot to take your treatment, didn’t you?” he squinted. “You need to be more careful with that, I don’t want you to end up at the infirmary  _ again _ , Melekor…” He ticked and tried to correct himself. “Sorry, what was the other name again? Elim?”

“Elem!” corrected Garak from behind the curtain.

“Elem, yes,” Glain approved, gesturing the name. “ _ Ee-lem _ . It goes down, quiet and plain with confidence like that.  _ Ee-lim _ is really not the same.  _ Elim  _ flutters in the air with an unreasonable amount of high-pitched sweetness.” Garak tried not to feel outraged, fearing Elem would perceive his feelings (which he did, and he was confused that Garak would be offended by this too – was he  _ really _ that disappointed that he hadn’t chosen one of his names? After he’d all but forbidden him to, the choice should’ve delighted him).

Instead, the tailor tried to concentrate on his work. The little girl looked at him, quiet and expressionless like a good Vulcan, and for a second, he wished he could be just as serene as calm as she was. The contrast made him feel all the more immature, and he hated it just as much, so he took a breath and focused on his task.

Getting done with the measurements didn’t take long, and he followed up by offering to Glain and Dziana to come feel and observe various samples of fabric and look at patterns. The other two were most obviously having some telepathic argument for all Garak could deduce from their body language, and he had to repress a heavy sigh.

Elem couldn’t help but fuss mentally at Timun – about the whole “my daughter is also my sister” thing, about his useless medical concerns and about his flirtatiousness,  _ “Don’t you dare hitting on my brother, or myself,” _ he warned dangerously,  _ “I didn’t discuss with Bashir about that alternative treatment and I won’t. Once in Cardassian space, I will get a Cardassian doctor. I will not submit to you,” _ he stated harshly.

_ “Do you really think you will find a suitable doctor so fast, Mel? One who listens to you and to what you want? _ ” Timun held to his own doubts. “ _ Savras too worries about you, about what will happen to you there… And by the way, despite all the evidence she gathered to prove she’d been empathically manipulated by your mother, she lost the trial,” _ he informed him. Elem’s shoulders dropped, but he steeled himself and remained in a defensive expression before he put distance between them, walking away from Lykes to pretend that he was busy browsing some clothes.

_ “Not surprising,” _ he came to a stop, stroking his fingers over a particularly well-sewn shirt, pretending, perhaps, that Garak was wearing it,  _ “And don’t call me Mel,” _ he added sharply, curling his fingers into the pleasant fabric, “ _ I thought you would never come back. It would have been better that way – don’t ever speak of me like that in front of my brother again.” _

_ “I apologize if I embarrassed you,” _ Timun followed him.  _ “This new name of yours is ...new. I just probably need to get a little time to get used to it.” _ He observed the way the other was putting distance between them with a little pinch of sadness. “Listen…” he murmured,  _ “I don’t want to be a burden, but I don’t trust things are going to be anything easy for you on Cardassia. You asked me to be your group, Elem. You asked me to protect you, to stay united, to give a common front,” _ he summoned the memories.  _ “Do you really have so much faith in yourself to no longer need me? I’m not asking you to return to me feelings you don’t have. I’m asking if you still want us to be friends, to be a group. I thought what we’ve been through together mattered – maybe I’m wrong, but even then, I see you fragile, weak and worried, and it worries me too.” _

_ “I am going to my father. Why are you leaving your daughter? Don’t you think she needs you more than I ever could?” _ Elem shot back. Timun’s insistence was getting to be upsetting. They couldn’t be ‘ _ just friends _ ’ as he proposed. His presence was awaking feelings and desires Melekor thought he’d suppressed, and Elem couldn’t allow this to continue. Away, Glain was keeping a watchful eye. So was Garak.

“I won’t answer questions about your brother, Mister Rokat,” the tailor said before the archivist asked him.

“Mister Garak,” Dziana raised her small voice, distinctly speaking with the best English she could offer, “I notice  a repetitive pattern of large open collars in your models, but I have heard that Cardassians have a lower body temperature and are more sensitive to cold. Why do your clothes offer so little protection to a  _ highly-vascularized _ area of the body? Do you not lose a lot of heat from this exposition?” The two Cardassians looked at the small alien, both slightly taken aback.

“Suffering for fashion statements is a proof of dedication,” Glain opted to tell.

“Tight collars can restrict movements and feel uncomfortable,” Garak said at the same time.

“So it’s a close tie between two unpleasant options, if I dare say,” the child gave them a malicious look. “That was a pun,” she pointed.

“What a bright child,” Garak appreciated with a little smile. He had a small frown however. He could tell that the engineer in the dress had chosen to tell something shocking to the Vulcan, and it seemed worrying. By his side, Glain had noticed too, and tensed with a sub-dish of guilt. That Melekor had been close to taking his own life wasn’t something Garak would imagine so easily.

_ “Last night I tried to commit suicide, I lost control and attacked Glain. So I took my rifle, and I...” _ Elem didn’t dare to phrase the thought,  _ “I have to stop indulging. You are a temptation leading me astray from what I have to try and become. I’m a Cardassian, or at least I want to be, I want to find happiness, I want to find a Cardassian husband. I want to be loyal to him, whoever he might be, and I want to be desirable. Pure. You make me dirty, Timun Lykes. I don’t want to be your quick fix. And I don’t want you to be my quick fix, either. Don’t you understand?”  _ Timun stared at him, confused as much as he was concerned and trying to prioritize the issues.

“We have to work this out, Elem…” he spoke and held his hands. “If you are feeling like this now, here on DS9, what will it be like over there? Going to Cardassia is not going to solve everything like magic in a fairy tale. There will be new ordeals for you there. You can’t just go and crashland there… You need to get yourself sorted first, and it’s not something you should do alone. I  _ will _ be tame, I promise you,” he squeezed his hands a little. “I am your friend. I’m a doctor. Let me help you… Let me help you so Cardassia never needs to know about all this,” he insisted. “Don’t use me, Elem. Use my  _ help _ . My friendship. Our friendship.”

“The only one I need is Glain,” Elem put distance between them again. “You can’t even help yourself, I doubt you can do anything for me,” he said although he knew he was losing the debate.  _ “Are you hoping to use me for something once we get to Cardassia? I’d rather we go parted ways, especially if you’re going to join  _ **_Starfleet_ ** _ of all things,” _ he thinned his eyes.

_ “You are the one who uses others, Elem. I am Timun. I’m the kind, naive one. I don’t even expect you to want to stand within less than a fifteen kilometers radius away from me after you’ve set foot on Cardassia,” _ the Vulcan replied flatly.  _ “But if you feel more comfortable around your brother, that’s fine on me,” _ he reckoned and went over to the others, to see if Dzi had chosen a pattern of her liking. “Are you done, Dzi?” he asked his daughter with a soft smile.

“I have been for the last five minutes at least,” she answered  and put down the PADD.

“This young person has very fine tastes,” Garak complimented. “I do hope to give both you and her entire satisfaction on the purchase.”

“I trust your skills with a blind eye, Mister Garak,” Timun presented his thumb to pay the order. Dziana paid a courteous nod to the Cardassians before siding her father.

“Where are we going now?”

“To the infirmary, see if the doctor has a little time to get our little gift. Then we’ll go drop those bags to our quarters,” he suggested. Glain tensed at that comment but Timun simply led the way out, holding the little girl’s hand.

“We need to go,” Glain concluded, hurriedly delivering payment to Garak with his thumb print to better grab his brother’s hand. “I need to place your thing somewhere else if that man and that child are going to be in that room,” he muttered and Elem couldn’t agree more.

They strolled away as fast as it was permitted to walk on the Promenade, but came to a sudden halt when the drunken Bajoran from before barred the way with other men, laughing at them and chanting some nonsensical prayer, circling around the couple. When they started to throw sand peas at the bepuzzled and scared Cardassians, yet another Bajoran came fuming at the men, screaming at them that they were being sacrilegious and blasphemous. The old man shooed them away somehow, and stopped in front of the couple, paying a bow.

“Please, accept my apologies in the name of those persons,” he said. “Tough times have led many of us lost and misguided, but where kindness finds them, they will find themselves too, and follow the Will of the Prophets again.” Glain stared at him and his robes, feeling quite angry.

“And why is it that a Bajoran can wear a woman’s dress, but if it’s a Cardassian being just as elegant, it suddenly becomes laughable and subject to mockery!? You people and your  _ gods _ ! They’re not even gods, they’re just aliens you submit to, like you used to submit to us! At least  _ we _ don’t pin everything we do on excuses as ridiculous as  _ the Prophets _ ! We have order, we have discipline, and we are civilized!” The prylar was not happy. “And don’t look at me like that! I have all the right to be angry about this outrageous behavior your people have been serving us all day long, and all the right not to be satisfied with a few words of apology!” He stopped suddenly as Elem clung to his arm and whispered something barely audible yet impossible to misinterpret. He wanted to go.

Glain gulped on his anger, “You’re in the way,” he just told the priest, holding his brother a bit tighter. Then he tried to get more formal, because  _ he _ was civilized, and added, “May your Prophet aliens grant you a better day than your people do us.” The Bajoran priest was too dumbstruck and split between anger and etiquette to react, so Glain walked around him, leading the way out of the Promenade as soon as he could.

“It’s going to be alright,” he repeated to his brother once safe in a turbolift. “It’s going to be fine…” As his voice recovered more fluidity, he started to sing softly, “ _ Three children go to the water – the water, Three children go to the water in Kerdalen… _ ” and Melekor eventually joined in.

##  * * *

“Doctor Bashir? I have someone to introduce to you as more than a blood sample,” Timun smiled brightly as the man turned his chair to look at his visitors – fondness sparkled warmth in his dark eyes as he laid them on the little girl. “This is my daughter, Dziana Lykes.”

“Doctor Julian Bashir,” she said politely, “thank you for giving me a new father and expanding my brother’s ties to me with the genetic analysis you performed. Now, he’s even more of a family person,” she started to giggle at her own jokes and Julian grinned in silent laughter. “Timun wanted to offer you this, and I also put something in there,” she presented a case to the doctor. It was rather flat and longer than large.

“I hope you’ll like it, and I hope you’ll use it,” Timun smiled.

“Why, I am delighted to have been of assistance,” Julian chimed happily as he accepted the gift from the small girl, smiling at her, then  at Lykes, “You didn’t have to,” he said, although childish curiosity had already claimed him, as he opened his gift with rather some energy. He chuckled when he unveiled the contents, winking at Lykes, “I take this as an invitation for a rematch,” he noted with serious, weighing the racquetball racket in his hand.

“Absolutely!” Timun let him take a closer look at the drawings that laid in the case – there were ships of course, but each of them was named after members of the Lykes family, with arrows detailing their connections. Julian noticed that Mynx had been cleverly integrated as a shuttlecraft within Jaden’s larger ship. His smile widened.

“Why, this is quite incredible for a girl your age,” he looked at Dziana with enthusiasm, “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

“Observation is key to understanding most everything, and I like to understand a lot of things,” she said instead.

“That’s what our mother taught us,” Timun added. “Oh, talking about mother,” he switched the topic, “I met someone on Trill whose wife is about to acquire this status. He’s been on the station and asked me to pass the word to some Bajoran dwelling here. I was wondering if you’d happen to know him or where I could find him… a certain Mister Mersai Prylar, or in whichever order Bajorans sort their names – I think Prylar is the family name.” Julian chuckled at the innocent misconception.

“Prylar Mersai,” he corrected him and set the box aside, placing the drawings on top of the racket as he got up, “It’s a title,” he explained, “a rank amongst the spiritual leaders of Bajor. You could say it’s a sort of priest – Prylar Mersai used to serve at the station’s temple. You just missed him; he returned to Bajor some three months ago. I wouldn’t know where he went; maybe someone at the temple could help you?” Timun blinked in slight confusion.

“Wait a moment, you mean those people aren’t just spiritual, but also  _ religious!? _ ” he cared to say in a hushed voice in case one of the nurse would be eavesdropping – if Bajoran nurses were like Trillian ones, they surely did. “I knew they were a bit behind in terms of politics and everything, but I didn’t know it was  _ that _ ...terrible. I thought that Prophets thing was an invention of the Resistance to upset the Cardassians,” he admitted.

“You can’t say that!” Julian burst out in a mixture of shock and horror while struggling to gather himself together to better explain, “If you want to join Starfleet, you’re going to have to work on your interspecies approach,” he added with a headshake, nevermind that this was the exact class he’d scored the worst in himself. “The Prophets are, in fact, the aliens that reside inside the wormhole, and they have been gifting the Bajorans with artefacts capable of granting visions for centuries,” he leaned back in his chair, “And I’m afraid the  _ Cardassians _ are the ones to blame for the current state of Bajor’s affairs – there’s a provisional government, which intermingles with the spiritual leadership, of which the most prominent role is the Kai.” He didn’t exactly feel like talking about Opaka’s fate however, so he didn’t. “Anyway, even if the Prophets  _ weren’t _ real beings, that doesn’t mean you get to call religion primitive. After all, political leadership isn’t so much different from religious leadership; they both have their different sets of rules and values to live by – that should, perhaps, be something for you to think about if you’re going to pursue going to Cardassia.  _ Their _ State is more of a church, in matter of how it’s run, and I daresay more backwards than their Bajoran counterpart has ever been.”

“Now that sounds quite interesting as an approach. When I was studying Cardassian culture – what could be found about it, rather – I had this feeling that their politics weren’t  _ so _ different from ours, on Trill. But if you say the Bajorans are doing better, then it’s certainly worth exploring too. Maybe a little trip on Bajor would be nice,” Timun eyed at Dziana

“I want to see a Bajoran shuttle,” she approved eagerly.

“We just got out of that Trillian one and you already want to-”

“I like ships,” she cut off with optimism. Timun laughed and sighed.

“Children… they know what they want,” he flashed at Julian. “I hope you’re not too offended with my poor wording. I’ll make sure to read some more about Bajoran culture  _ and _ interspecies etiquette, and hopefully, you’ll be the one teaching me a lesson when I come back! With this,” he touched the racket. “I won several competitions with it.”

“Why, if I have your lucky racket, you might not stand a chance!” the Starfleet doctor warned with a wink, then leaned against the panel next to him, eyeing at the small family in front of him, it felt good to know he’d helped them both, “I think the two of you will find Bajor to be most welcoming. It’s a lush, friendly world – really quite amazing when you think about what the Bajorans have been through,” he tapped his chin, “You take care of your brother,” he told Dziana in confidence, “you don’t want him offending any of the Bajorans; they are a passionate people.”

“And so are we,” Dziana grinned. “And you too, Doctor Bashir. I can see why Timun would like you, you’re quite his t-”

“Well, let’s go!” the aforementioned put his hand on her mouth and proceeded to drag her away, blushing awfully; Julian couldn’t help but to grin a little at what had  _ nearly _ left the little girl’s lips – from children, you got the truth. “I’ll see you for the rematch!” Timun quipped. That was one quick exit, really. 

“Did I do something wrong?” the girl asked when they walked out of the infirmary.

“Have I not told you already that you can’t disclose other people’s feelings for someone like that? Ah, poor me! And I had to be rude in front of him too. My crush!” he put a dramatic hand on his heart. “That ship is sinking, now, sinking all the way down!”

“Just make it into a submarine then,” Dziana rolled her eyes and pulled at his hand. “When is the next shuttle for Bajor?”

“You  _ really _ want to go now?” he gave her a look. She nodded firmly. He sighed. “Well, we’ll see that, but first we need to go to the ...place where priests are, to inquire of Mersai’s whereabouts so we can set a course.”

“It’s a mission!” she approved eagerly. She was having fun, and that was all Timun asked for.

“And how do we call the mission then?” he led the way to the information panel.

“Mission Bajor, obviously,” the girl decided.

They discussed but shortly in front of the information panel to decide their next destination. The ‘Bajoran Temple’ seemed like a very evident pick, and so they headed there. “We have to be polite and respectful of their beliefs. If something seems a bit weird, it is best not to inquire about it unless we are directly asked or expected to do something,” Timun instructed. “We also might have to ask if we have to do something special in order to enter, like crawl or take off our clothes, or put on more clothes, or drink something. Or pay.”

“Bajorans aren’t Ferengi, silly Timun.”

“No, but they have fundraisers too.”

“That is true,” she acknowledged. “Mister Garak specified to me that a part of his profit for the sale will got to the fund for Cardassian war orphans on Bajor.”

“How generous and caring of him,” Timun smiled, though he couldn’t help a pang of sadness at the thought of orphans, be they Cardassian or Bajorans.

The Bajoran temple was that establishment Timun had passed by a few times, only thinking it was quite nice-looking, but assuming that it might be some Bajoran bar with a backroom. He’d stayed away from it however, as the Bajoran males he’d seen so far mostly gave off some heterosexual vibe that was a bit off-putting. Unsure of how sexualy open the species was, he’d kept to himself to avoid problems. And then he’d met Melekor.

“Here we go…” they walked in cautiously, silent, sneaking in almost like thieves. They didn’t have to go far before a Bajoran in saffron robes stopped them – or greeted them, rather.

“Uhm, how nice to meet you,” Timun cleared his throat and stood formally, although he felt a bit weird as his universal translator made him speak in what must be Bajoran. “We are bearer of a message for Prylar Mersai, but we have been informed that he isn’t on the station anymore.”

“Indeed, he recently returned to Bajor for a spiritual retreat,” the priest acknowledged. “I am afraid he won’t be coming back here so soon.”

“We’ve heard so, but we thought we could travel to meet him on Bajor. If you could tell us where exactly he is, that is.”

“Oh, but those are sacred grounds. One cannot simply beam in there, and access is reserved to priests and, occasionally, certain Bajorans citizen  _ may _ be allowed. Still, if your message is important, and you are willing to submit to our ways, who knows. It all lies in the Hands of the Prophets.” Timun didn’t flinch though he felt like squinting.

“Pardon me if I misunderstood, but is this a requirement for us to convert to your religion in order to convey our mission?” – The prylar chuckled gently.

“Of course not. You are Vulcans, am I correct?”

“About so,” Timun nodded. “We are also part-Trill. We understand that your religion is greatly important to you, and we respect it. Trills too are spiritual people, in their relationship with symbionts, and if I am correct, you Bajorans too have a form of symbiosis with ...the Prophets?”

“I suppose we do,” the priest’s face warmed up sensibly. From this point, dialogue was to be easier.

“If there are customs of your people that we should follow or respect in the vicinity of the retreat, we certainly will. May I inquire again where this place would happen to be on Bajor?”

“Absolutely. It’s the spiritual retreat of Mak’aandara, in the province of Derenis. But again, I cannot ensure in anyway that you may be allowed through. Your message, however, might.”

“We will take this information with great consideration,” Timun bowed ceremoniously and Dziana mimicked him. “Thank you for your time, Prylar.”

 

“Did he speak?” the little girl asked as they came out.

“He did, but the man is in some kind of secluded place. Getting on those grounds may not be the easiest, he said, but we can’t just wait for Mersai’s return, can we?” Timun winked.

“We could go see when the next shuttle departs?” she insisted and he agreed.

The places on the shuttle were limited, but there was still a dozen of seats available on the ship departing the next day morning. Timun placed a reservation on two of them and decided to head to Quark after, to discuss the modalities of rearranging his quarters. Dziana wanted to play tongo, but her father had to remind her children weren’t allowed to,  _ even  _ if they were good at it.

“A female her age?” Quark snorted. “I would have paid to see that, but I’ve been beaten at Ferengi games by a Trill female enough times to learn my lesson. That small one doesn’t have a worm in it, though, does she?”

“I don’t need a worm to win,” Dziana shrugged.

“Anyway, these are the various options for your room,” Quark came back to the initial topic. “It’s what’s in the catalogue, nothing less and nothing more. Rooms must be clean and empty before furniture beaming. The house is not responsible for any damage caused to leftover belongings. Prices are not negotiable.”

“And outrageous as usual,” Timun commented.

“That’s the price for quality.”

“As usual,” he smirked. “I’m not going to order anything before our little trip to Bajor, but I’m taking this with me. My roommate might have a more urgent need for another bed.”

“Yeah, about that… Do you’ve got any idea what’s up with him lately? Is he trying to turn into a woman or something? I’ve seen him in a dress earlier, a Cardassian boy at his arm. And then again a bit later. Next thing I knew, some of my Bajoran customers were stealing all my sand peas to throw them at the couple as some kind of wedding ritual,” the Ferengi croaked.

“Really…? That’s quite rude…” Timun observed with serious.

“I know! Those sand peas are meant to make people thirsty and-”

“That must be terrible for your profit,” Dziana interrupted and sat on the counter.

“Finally someone who understands me!” Quark beamed.

“Absolutely,” the little girl raised a hand to caress the Ferengi’s lobe, instantly washing a more serene expression on his face. “As it so happens, I am thirsty too, and I haven’t  _ even _ had any sand pea,” she complained in a sweet voice.

“Ah…” the bartender’s eyes flickered, then he grabbed her arm and broke the touch. “I can’t let you do this, I would get in trouble,  _ but _ ,” he grabbed a glass, “I must reward you to encourage you to keep this behavior when you grow up. What will it be?”

“Chocolate milk with cream topping,” she ordered.

“And you?” Quark looked at Timun.

“The same,” he grinned. The Ferengi snorted but went over the replicator.

“And who taught her to deal with Ferengi like that?”

“Brinn and Keg, who else? I’d treat your lobes with great care too if you’d let me, you know?” he winked.

“You’re a  _ male _ ,” Quark scoffed.

“Tell yourself that. When it comes to oo-mox, fingers are fingers and ears can’t care less,” Timun grinned widely. “I  _ bet _ my order and a meal that you would enjoy it.”

“I am not taking the stakes when my sand peas have been stolen and my profit lays on the ground,” the Ferengi set the glasses of chocolate milk on the counter, “Just drink and stop bothering me with your ludicrous ideas.”

“So, tell me, Quark,” Timun paid for his glass (which wasn’t free after all), “did you grow that fine sense of fashion in that closet you live in?” he asked and took a long sip while staring at him. The Ferengi just harrumphed and ambled away from the chuckling siblings.


	27. Day 24 - II

Back to the safety of his bedroom, Elem could finally relax in the comfort of his phelenaxinide. And Glain. The young man was caring and sweet, and Elem had to apologize for his sorry state. He was supposed to be the elder…

“But age doesn’t matter now, Elem,” Glain looked at him fondly. “You’re my family, it’s all I need to know. If only the older of us were allowed to care for the younger, it wouldn’t work very well.” He hesitated a bit, then led his brother to sit together on the couch while continuing. “Mother always cared for me. She’s been a fantastic mother at all time, supportive, loving, wise, patient and resilient. Brave. Then three years ago, she became sick, and it became my turn to care for her… A bit premature, of course, and Father cared for her most, but he couldn’t deny me the right to be there for her as much as I could. I needed to help, to ...get the most of it all while it was still possible. While she still knew who I am,” he passed an arm around Elem and rubbed his back. “You’re not going to die anytime soon, I hope, but we have this bond between us. It’s stronger than anything, and it doesn’t matter which one of us must care for the other, because we always will be there for each other. We are Cardassians, Elem,” he held his face to look at him and leaned forth to rest their foreheads together. “We are family.”

“Yes, we are,” Elem folded arms around Glain, “It must be so hard for you, to lose your mother like this, and for your father to lose his wife. Who takes care of you, Glain? Someone needs to be there for you, too. Does he have the energy to?”

“ _ Thank sweet Cardassia, I have Siram, _ ” Glain’s sigh of relief escaped him, spoken in Kardasi. Realizing what he’d just said, he added quickly, “And Iltarel and Keelani the housekeeper. I spare Father all I can…” he said, then admitted, “But I’m angry at him sometimes for not letting her go yet. It’s… hard to mourn someone when the hull still lives. It’s only between him and her now, and I can’t blame him, but… she’s barely there anymore, and while he’s with her, he’s not…” he didn’t finish the sentence, only sighing. “It’s a difficult balance to maintain. To be there so he won’t have too many regrets when he realizes what we might have missed, but not too much so he doesn’t have to have too much on his mind, because it make Mother confused. We’ve had arguments I regret, because I was being immature – I  _ was _ immature.” He took a breath, looking at the ceiling for inspiration and finding none. “I’m more worried for him than I am for myself. It frightens me sometimes, I wonder if I really care or not, if I’m allowed to be happy when he’s not, if I’m allowed to live in the present when he dwells in the past… but each time I do, I realize I care. I’ve thinned, yes, but I try to be strong for the both of us, and strength requires resilience. The resilience my mother taught me, the one I can now give to him,” he nuzzled his brother’s nose and caressed his hair. Elem’s smell was a comforting Cardassian scent among the stars, so far away from home.

Glain sighed and hummed a little, “We like to sing in the family,” he decided to share, “I was happy, earlier, to find you can sing too; you hadn’t told me you have such a beautiful and entrancing voice, it’s almost… It’s so beautiful,” he blushed.

“I had lessons,” Melekor answered, sinking back in that long-gone past. Then he shook himself and they tried to figure where they could hide the rifle. The elder didn’t fail to notice how his little brother was still uneasy around the weapon. It wasn’t just because of what had nearly happened the previous night however, he was certain of it. He inquired, still, with an inkling that it might be tied to that rhyme Glain sung.

“Father doesn’t know that story,” the youth warned. “Mother and Iltarel are the only ones I told it to. And maybe I should tell you, so you can understand better,” he didn’t specify what. They settled on the couch, huddling in the blankets and clinging to their cups. The smell of tea was pleasant and he relaxed gently, allowing himself to close his eyes.

“I told you of Reyal’s daughter yesternight,” he began. “This one story happens some time after. I was still fourteen, and I met a boy, Keral. He was older and charming, and one fateful night, he took me to a disorderly place I should never have gone to, and allowed me to… to understand I was into men. Amidst this and Kanar I met Enkem. He was incredibly handsome, too old for me but I didn’t care… It seemed like I was the only one who could see the evanescent wisp of him. When we kissed, I felt chosen, and that was the only thing I was right about. He was the darkness and I fell in love with it,” he hugged himself and shuffled closer to his brother. He thought for a moment of what to say next, or what not to say. “He was my first,” he said chastely. “It was intense and I always wanted more, greedy youth that I was. He was a lover and a teacher. He revealed to me that he was an interrogator, and I found it hot. And came this day when he proposed me to discover what his work was really about, and naive, I accepted eagerly. Sometimes… Sometimes I just sit on an armchair and pretend it’s his,” he purred. “I felt… so powerful,” he looked at the other. “I helped him torture that half-Bajoran man, I even liked it for a moment. I was doing my duty,” he said like sorry for his past self. “But then something went wrong, the prisoner escaped from the chair, held me like a shield and he managed to stab me eight times before Enkem shot him. It all happened so fast…” He paused again to drink some more, taking long gulps of the fragrant liquid.

“I woke up in my bedroom with him. He’d taken me back home while Father and Mother were asleep at night, and tucked me in bed. He watched over me and I knew I’d never see him ever again. But I loved him, and so what was most important to me was that he gave me the one last kiss he’d denied me all through the words we had and the long silences in between them,” his voice broke a little in the end. It would have been a good tragic ending, but he knew it didn’t stop there yet.

“I was shocked. I sunk into depression, and the school break ended too soon,” he shook his head, wide-eyedly looking into the past. “I wasn’t ready to return to the Institute, not with all those too-vivid memories of the many times he sneaked in, and the wonderful things we did together,” he recalled. “A woman from the Order came to see me, asked if I needed help maybe. I think all she really wanted to know was if Enkem truly loved me too. Then, Father learned Reyal was squandering about that disorderly place where I met Enkem… It was getting to be too many questions. I looked awful and I knew there would be even more questions waiting for me at the Institute. I couldn’t face it, couldn’t take it, and so I took a sharp knife and… oh, I was rescued as you can guess,” he pinched his lips. “Cardassia doesn’t view suicide attempts kindly – there is no suicide in Cardassia – and so I was tried. Father heard that Gul Reyal was planning to testify to reveal my sexual orientation publicly, using proofs that I’d been in that club and my suicide attempt as evidence of my guilt. Father maneuvered to have my charges excused – that Keral boy was charged with murder attempt, and Father tricked Reyal into believing I’d been infected with a sexual disease only transmitted among males, so he’d thought it the perfect proof. And when he presented his evidence, I was medically tested during the trial and proven to be perfectly sound of course. It all backfired on Reyal, and he was demoted as glinn.” That was the story. “I got better, eventually,” Glain added a positive note. “Father doesn’t know, but I think all of this happened because one of his acquaintances from work, a man we knew as Nilan, saw potential in me. And he, Nilan, he... was a member of the Obsidian Order, and so was Enkem – he was so  _ sexy _ in those dark clothes,” Glain cooed.

Elem tried not to be judgemental, but it wasn’t easy when his little brother seemed to romanticize the very cause of his traumatism, as if getting hurt had been a blessing rather than a curse, as if getting broken had made him stronger, just because he’d been  _ considered _ by the Order as a recruit. The elder couldn’t help feeling somewhat disquieted. “Sometimes, I think about it and it gives me confidence. Power,” Glain insisted.

“And other times,” Elem continued with something akin to humour, “it makes you go completely hysterical over something as trivial as a pulse rifle,” he rolled his eyes a little, then squeezed Glain closer, putting his own tea cup on the floor, inviting him to do the same, so they could just lay back on the bed for a moment, “You would have been just as smart and capable,  _ without _ being...  _ considered _ . Except, perhaps, with the little difference of not having been traumatized and developed a phobia for guns. Have you thought about that?”

“Yes…” Glain chose to agree although he didn’t agree inside – if not for that betrayal, prisoner release, and everything that happened after, it  _ would _ have been different. “But… if only Enkem had been there to handle the trauma, I don’t think it would have had lasting damage. And I wouldn’t trade those moments with him for anything…” Glain looked up at his sibling, snuggling and cooing. “He was… so perfect. So smart, handsome, tender and fascinating. I still love him, yes. He’s still with me so I’m never really alone. Have you ever been in love like that? A love that may last forever?” he asked fondly. “Or a friendship, I don’t know… Something deep, special, unique and eternal.”

“I did have... a friend, back on Trill,” Elem admitted. “We sang in the same choir, actually. There was a connection between us, a mutual understanding, like we were on the same wavelength. We liked the same music, the same food, we shared the same taste in literature, though I think he had a greater gift for subtleties than myself,” he shrugged. “He died; went missing one day and never came back. Eventually he was declared dead – his grandparents refused to make a grave for him. Sometimes I feel like  _ I _ am his grave. I wish I didn’t have to be.” Glain listened, letting his brother’s sadness echo in him.

“A grave…” he repeated and nodded. “I tried to bury Enkem, for both our sakes when…” he didn’t feel like talking of the psychiatric ward, “But I can’t help but wonder if Enkem isn’t somewhere out there, to be found…” he searched for Elem’s hand to hold. “What was your friend’s name? If his body was never found, maybe he’s not dead? Maybe he just… went his way. Or joined an intelligence, if they have one on Trill – do they?” he suggested. Of course, the statistical odds for it to be true were extremely low, but Glain had seen all sorts of unlikely cases come to fruition through the many files he’d archived. Elem snorted a little and shook his head against the armrest, shifting his position just enough so that Glain ended up less or more trapped between him and the backrest.

“No, none that I know of. I used to hope some of the conspiracies Savras speaks about all the time would be true, just because it might imply Maniel might be out there, somewhere. Alive and well. But such fantasies are childish,” Melekor took a deep breath, “Maniel Dalkar. That was his name. Sometimes when I see my own reflection in the glass window, when I wear my choir clothes, I trick myself to see him instead. We were... not so dissimilar.”

“It’s a beautiful name, not completely strange even,” Glain couldn’t help but smile as if the person still existed, as if he might meet him. “You know, we have a holographic projector at home, which I sometimes use for a program of my own design. I could make a program for you too,” he suggested. “I could meet your friend and you could meet mine.” Melekor made a grimace and a sound of dismay.

“You’d need a holorecording for that, and a mental profile,” he pointed out with dislike, “I have neither, nor do I want to do this. Glain,” he turned on his side to look sternly at him, “You need to move on from Enkem. You need to find  _ someone else _ to love like that, someone who is real, not a  _ hologram _ . He’s gone, if he wanted to come back to you, he would have – let him go.” He couldn’t help but to think of Garak instead, eyes tickling with sudden tears.

“I know, I know I have to let him go,” Glain sighed. “That’s exactly the reason I created this hologram. To get closure,” he explained. “It’s therapeutic if you prefer. I know I’ll have to enjoin a girl in the end, so we can procreate. I don’t look forward to it, but  _ I _ don’t have female organs after all. Almost makes me wish I did…” he groaned.

“Enjoin someone like me, then,” Elem suggested, “someone who is both. I’m not the only one like this, Garak told me it’s not that uncommon. A portion of me might be... feminine... but I’m most certainly not a girl,” he sighed and closed his eyes. Glain said nothing and just hid his face in Elem’s neck, blushing and shivering for a moment. He clenched his jaws, laying still and trying not to let his mind wander further down a road that was highly improper.

“Right,” he uttered. “Right…” The breakfast had been light, and he was getting peckish in a quite timely manner. “Maybe we should eat something,” he suggested, trying to recover a paler tint.

“In a moment,” Elem answered and clung to him, a bit unwilling to get up just yet, “whose turn is it to ask a question?”

“I don’t know.” Glain was about confident that his sibling must have noticed his uneasiness, “I told you about Enkem, you told me about Maniel…”

“And then you told me about your plans to create a holographic fucktoy, though I guess I didn’t actually ask about that.”

“That’s not what it is!” Glain flared. “If there’s  _ one thing _ I didn’t design him for, it’s sex! He looks just like Enkem, his personality is built on memories I have of him, but I made sure to make him different so to never confuse virtuality with reality. I just wanted to be able to talk with him again, to heal the wounds of the past, to tell him what’s become of me, tell him he must let me go so I might go on with my life. Fall in love again…”

“I could never do anything like that, not to Maniel, not to Arkadyen not to G- to any of them. Besides, it wouldn’t be real,” Melekor frowned at the ceiling, pursing his lips. “Is it normal to have such an early sex debut on Cardassia?” he continued to ask, trying to look at the other, “I had mine... less than a month ago,” he realized how bad it sounded, and the implications it made. Blushing profoundly, he added, “I’m not going to say who it was with, but it’s  _ not _ the tailor, if that’s what you think.” That talk was doing a fine job at reviving memories that were as pleasant as they were embarrassing in that moment, and Glain was turning quite hot. The back of his neck and his arms were heating up from fire that burned inside his torso, and he didn’t even want to think of what was going on further down.

“The Vulcan,” he figured, his voice hoarse against his brother’s neckscales, wishing his mind wasn’t so prone to this kind of vivid imagery. He really did  not need this, and found himself clinging to the other, afraid he’d see in which state of arousal he was in if he got up – Elem could probably  _ feel _ it, but Glain felt trapped in a dead end already. “I saw how he was looking at you…” he almost chuckled, his breath too warm and lustful. “I can’t fault you, he  _ has _ a very nice darkness to his skin, and if he’s a martial artist, he must have quite the body under all those clothes.” He almost felt like being cruel and vengeful for the torment Elem put him in. “And  _ where _ did it happen?” he asked just to mess with him in fair retaliation. This wasn’t what Elem had wanted to happen at all – not to mention the fact that Glain hadn’t even answered his question.

“Y-you mean you’re fine with that having happened?” he asked in a mixture of outrage and confusion, “And it was in the living room,” he answered, in honesty, “I can’t specify where, because I’m not sure when it turned into sex. All I wanted was to provoke him until he’d lose his temper and attack me, I hadn’t exactly planned on having sex with him,” the memory was... vivid. Shameful. An indulgence for lonely moments – not something to share with Glain.

“Don’t worry, you’re probably not the first Cardassian to indulge with an alien in that whorehouse this place used to be,” the archivist moved a bit to look at him. In a way, arousing Elem only helped to recover more balance, which allowed him to relax some more despite the hardness at his groin. “It’s true that it’s not considered proper to have sex before the end of Institute – normally  _ nineteen _ , the age of Joining,” he specified when his sibling gave a questioning frown – “but that doesn’t mean our bodies don’t get ready for it from an earlier age,” he sighed, hair messy once more, curls rebelling against him and gravity itself. He set hazy green eyes on Elem again, observing how handsome and androgynous he was. Did they really have to be brothers? Were they really brothers? He could absolutely have sex with him. He could probably fall in love with him too, but  _ that _ would be a problem. If they’d grown up together, he’d know inside that they were related… But now… In this moment, in this position, his mind was going places his hands were forbidden to. “I’ve never done it with an alien however…” he purred more softly although still provocative. “Tell me, was it good? Was he aggressive? Controlled? And  _ below _ , are they like us?”

Melekor wasn’t amused, Elem wasn’t either. The situation had gotten uncomfortable and he resolved to move to the edge of the couch, kneeling against the armrest to stare out at the stars. Computer,” he said, feeling vicious, “start music playback, fifty percent audio volume. Artist Sex Slave Symbiont _ , _ Album  _ Confessions _ , Track three,  _ Obey The Voice in Your Head _ .” It started slow, almost like a piece of classical piano music, until the baseline kicked in, and the bestial voice of the singer broke the illusion, smashing the beautiful scene to pieces. Chaos ensued, ensnared in the lyrics, intense and hot.

 

_ “I’m inside your mind now _

_ You do what I command _

_ Fingers like claws lace my neck; _

_ My wish is your command _

 

_ “Obey, obey the voice in your head _

_ Smash, smash my face all the way in _

 

_ “I’m inside your mind now, _

_ You’ll enjoy my reign _

_ Violence like love strike me down; _

_ My wish is your command” _

 

Five other verses followed, invasive and almost nauseatingly intense, but it was mostly the bassline that caught Melekor with this one, although he was too oblivious to sexuality to react to it in the way others usually did. It wasn’t  _ just _ a bassline, it had a certain swinging motion to it. It was  _ savage _ . And unlike anything Glain had ever heard before – not even military training music was that indecent. The Cardassian couldn’t understand the Trillian lyrics, but he did understand the sensuality of the voice, the  _ argumentative _ aggressivity of the music, and suggestive, sexual energy. He shivered, feeling too cold without his brother’s warmth. He looked at his back, at the shape of him in the dress, the exposed skin of his arms. Elem was devious, wasn’t he? Taking the song as an invitation, and not entirely thinking, Glain crawled to him, his movements turned inaudible by the blasting music, and he set his hands on the other’s hips, hugging him from behind and resting his chin against his neck. He could feel the slit dividing the roundness of Elem’s ass, right against the bulge in his own pants. He kept on shivering as he breathed suggestively, warm and close the other’s ear, in rhythm with the music. The next second, a fire lit on his cheek as Melekor slapped him with strength, glaring daggers at him.

“Computer, stop playback – Just what do you think you’re even doing?!” he asked his little brother hotly, utterly disgusted by the entire situation. Glain rested himself, a hand on the armrest of the couch while the other touched his cheek, where he’d been hit.

“It’s not what you wanted?” he asked, still too hot to feel shame. “It all seemed like an invitation and try me to death if it wasn’t one of the hottest I’ve ever had,” he grinned. “You are  _ vicious _ , and I wish I could fuck you,” he exhaled. “You’re teasing me, toying with me… You even make me like it…” he admitted, resting his side on the couch’s backrest and trailing  his left hand over his torso, pulling on the fabric of his shirt to let out some steam.

“No, it’s not what I wanted!” Melekor burst out, blushing with indignation and anger; he had to turn around in order to keep himself from slapping Glain again, “You’re  _ my brother _ , and this is  _ wrong _ . It is  _ not _ what I want us to have together. I – I don’t have a sexdrive, anyway, so it’s useless for you to pursue anything with me. Go have a sonic shower, or something.”

“Then  _ why _ didn’t you let me go when I suggested it, instead of driving us to this!?” Glain still needed to ask. “I know full well it’s wrong, but for State’s sake, Elem, you really think our family is perfect? Oh, yeah, we  _ are _ a perfect family, because we hide it it well, but the pretty picture burned way before you and I were even born! We’re so fucking flawed! And what to say of our uncles, aunts, cousins… so many of them are dead!” he couldn’t help but laugh. “I told you I’m flawed, and now… now you know!” he got up, removing his shirt in the same movement, standing with no attempt to hide the arousal at his groin. Arms raising to his sides, he presented himself to his brother, all scars visible – keepsakes, his sibling figured. “This, Elem,  _ this _ is your brother. This is Cardassia.”

“Nothing you do, say or can show me, will chase away my love for you, Glain. Or for Cardassia,” Elem sighed and then moved his arms behind his back, undoing the zipper there, letting the cloth of the dress reveal his own body, and the blatant lack of desire in his pants. If Glain needed this bluntness, he’d be granted his desire. “I have never felt sexual attraction towards anyone, so don’t take it personally. Violence, pain, abuse and domination turn me on.  _ I _ do not fear pain. When I was a child, I was a clueless one. I let myself be bullied; it turned into a daily routine. It felt wrong if I went a day without it. It took my mother too long to figure out what happened, but when she did, she helped me overcome pain. She conditioned me, in a way that only a telepath could. My brain perceives pain as bliss, as pleasure. And... I found out, untimely so, that it has the power to turn me on as well. You, my dear?” he smiled, rather sweetly, “You’re five years younger than me, and no matter what you do, I doubt you’ll ever stand a chance at physically threatening me.”

“Then it’s perfect,” Glain rested his hands on his hips. His throat felt like an arid desert. He shook his head slowly and put his shirt back on before picking the rifle they’d been fussing over before – the moment he held it, several very disturbing ideas had passed through Melekor’s head, and Elem had to cross his legs – “I won’t use it, sweet brother, I promise… but I cannot let it in here with you,” the youth stated to his elder. “Unless you want to come in the bathroom with me and watch me masturbate, it is preferable that I take it along with me,” he wet his lips while getting a pair of clean pants and underwear from his bag. He felt so messed up. What was he even? A Cardassian boy obsessed with his past lover who might very well be dead for all he knew, a child who wished his beloved mother were dead, a murder-and-suicide attempt survivor who still couldn’t get rid of his scars, and now a brother who wanted to fuck his own sibling. He wanted to laugh, but there was no humor.

“If we were to have sex, wouldn’t that destroy the brotherly feelings?” Melekor asked, rather confused about it, “I’ve wanted a family, a real family, ever since I was a child. This isn’t what I wanted, it’s not... it’s not proper. I just wanted someone to care for, and someone to care for  _ me _ , not  _ incest! _ ” Glain looked at him and took a breath starting to relax some more again. His arousal was still there and strong, and he could feel the heat arraying from his brother, pulling him forth. But he resisted.

“If you don’t want this, that’s all I need to know. But please… try not to turn me on. Don’t hold me close when I try to back off from my own desires. Don’t make things harder than they have to be. Can we agree on this?” Elem nodded silently, mouthing a  _ sorry _ to the other, then huddled on himself.

“I didn’t realize I was making it more difficult for you,” he finally confessed, “Y-you, everyone else, you all seem so... so easily turned on. I don’t know how to handle that. All I want is to be close. And I wish my body wasn’t so separated from my mind, from my emotions, from love. Love doesn’t even seem to matter to my sex drive.”

“Neither does it to mine,” Glain shrugged. “I tend to think it’s quite common for us to have sex without having to be in love. It would be highly impractical otherwise; our spouses would be exhausted and feel objectified if we didn’t carry out our pulsions with other people. And pursuing several romantic affairs is extremely dangerous… But we can be close, so long as you don’t… you know,” he looked at the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get to the bathroom first. I’m having a hard time to focus and to stay in control when I see you like this,” he admitted and strode out with the rifle.

Elem pondered over what had just happened for a while. Eventually, he moved out of the room, wrapped in the blanket because he didn’t feel like putting the dress on again. After Glain was done with the bathroom, and done finding a new hiding spot for the rifle, they could settle down. He apologized dearly and they shared a bowl of warm soup while Melekor’s clothes were being washed.

##  * * *

About an hour something later, Elem had cleaned his clothes and slid into his working clothes, becoming and feeling a bit more like Melekor. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant to sink back into the comfort of what he was used to being. The dress? He’d tucked it into his bag, and wasn’t planning on putting it on again in a long time. He found that he felt uncomfortable with himself, with the idea of how others might perceive him, that part of him. He wished he didn’t have to split himself up like this; he wanted to be both at the same time, and it was what he was thinking about as he finished doing his laundry. Were there people, Cardassians, who were both? Not man, not woman, just something in-between. Something both, or neither? Not a fleeting, fluid concept that kept going back and forth between the two, but something more stable, something constant. Something  _ whole _ , like he wished he could be whole. He doubted it. Cardassia seemed so binary, at least in representation. To be himself the way he wished to, was surely a luxury he’d have to compromise on; after all, he wished to end up in a relationship with a man, so he  _ had _ to learn how to be a woman, even if it was one subject to ridicule and humiliation.

But then he rinsed his face last of all, watching with dark eyes as he emerged back into  _ reality _ . It had all been a dream, this transcending indulgence, nothing but a childish fantasy, a foolish pursuit. His mother had made him into a boy; he  _ was _ a boy. The rest of the world would never see him as anything else, so why even try to stretch the fabric that way? Why even try, when he wasn’t even an actual woman, when what he wanted was… something more diffuse. Perhaps his mother hadn’t been wrong in concealing these things from him. What was the point in pursuit when he didn’t even know if what he pursued could exist?

Once out of the bathroom, he saw Timun and his child had arrived – Dziana had wanted to see the wormhole open and close so they had had to wait for some time until eventually it happened. Truly, the sight wasn’t the sort one could get tired of. It  _ was _ spectacular and breathtaking. Splendid and amazing.

“I see you still find your way here,” Melekor offered them a court nod.

“Of course I-” Timun was interrupted as Dziana strode to Elem.

“So you really  _ are _ an engineer!” she cooed, “Your working clothes are so elegant!” she complimented in sheer honesty. “We are going to Bajor tomorrow. Do you know a lot about Bajoran shuttles? Have you ever been on one?” For all answer, Melekor edged away from the child, trying to escape to the sofa.

“Dzi, don’t harass him with questions, dear,” Timun shook his head as the engineer sat in the end of the sofa in which his brother wasn’t already sitting, in a clear attempt to not participate in further conversation. “She really  _ loves _ mechanics,” the young father tried to excuse his daughter to the other.

“Where on Bajor are you going?” Glain asked quite suddenly. The mention of the trip got him thinking.

“Derenis province, why?” the Vulcan answered. “You’d like to come? I hear Bajor looks wonderful and is quite warm, so, probably a very nice place for you, Cardassians to b-ba-buh-” he stuttered as he realized what terribly politically incorrect thing he just nearly said. Fortunately, there were no Bajorans to hear, and Glain didn’t see anything wrong with that statement.

“Well, there’s a place on Bajor I always wanted to visit, so to say. I wouldn’t want to go there alone and unprotected, but with a Vulcan it might be safer…”

“ _ You  _ want to go to Bajor?” Melekor asked him in disbelief, “I thought you  _ hated _ Bajorans,” he sighed and leaned forwards, rubbing the ridge of his nose, “I don’t know if we should go, Glain. It might be disrespectful to them, and I... I don’t really feel like being around much.”

“The Order get all those Bajorans for all I care,” Glain got up and walked to stand in his brother’s back, behind the sofa, where he rested his arms on the backrest. “But think about Reyal, about the computers, the records… I am certain there  _ has _ to be something to find. When we left Bajor, it was in a hurry, and the military thought we were going to come back quickly after. A lot of guls, glinns, legates, and many other officials have repeatedly expressed concerns about all the equipments left behind… Think about it!” he beamed. His gaze fell on the low table on which Timun had just put replicated vegetable snacks and a bowl of some dip that seemed to contain crushed boiled eggs. Appetized, Glain waltzed himself back on the couch, and ended up with Timun’s little girl sitting on his lap and trying to feed him a shot of carrot with sauce on – which he had to accept.

“Your mission sounds very interesting,” she said. “Ours is to deliver a message to someone, so it shouldn’t take too long. We could then go to the place where the computers you seek are; I like computers.” Timun chuckled.

“That would be feasible, I suppose, and we’d get to see more of Bajor this way.”

“I guess I have no choice,” Melekor mumbled in defeat. He couldn’t let Glain go alone, for one, and for two, he didn’t particularly feel like being alone himself either. Still, the prospect of visiting the planet scared him a little, until he figured he wouldn’t wear the dress for the trip. “I’ll bring some equipment with me – Garak gave me this fancy eye-piece, it lets you… see things,” he blushed and felt inadequate for words, “It’s also very sexy,” he added, unable to help himself.

“A data magnifier? He  _ gave _ you that data magnifier?” Glain stared at his brother. “Ha! That really isn’t a tailoring tool! I can’t believe he gave himself out like that, this is incredible!” he gratefully accepted another shot of carrot to gnaw on and release his feelings of disapproval in crunchy bites.

“You sound like you don’t like Garak,” Timun pointed.

“Mister Rokat was looking at him with a lot of suspicion and a degree of anger when we were browsing the catalogs this morning,” Dziana said. “That is, when he wasn’t looking at you two,” she glanced either side to Timun and Elem. “I conclude there is a certain animosity indeed.”

“That man is dangerous and not to be trusted,” Glain said.

“And you sound like a Bajoran,” Timun echoed in the same tone. “I don’t know what he’s done to deserve your hatred, but if not for him, your brother would be dead.”

“It’s not the man, it’s his occupation.”

“He’s a very good tailor-”

“He’s not  _ just _ a tailor,” Glain cut off with a sigh. “The least you know, the better it is for everybody. “ _ But _ ,” he turned to Elem more softly, “that eyepiece would come in handy, yes. And it’s true they are quite sexy,” he agreed. “We’ll be dashing in those, repairing computers, plundering data…”

“That sounds exciting!” Dziana approved. “And it’s going to be fun!”

Melekor only hummed in agreement, unable to stop thinking about Garak. Who cared if he was more? As long as he was nice, Melekor wasn’t going to be anything but nice to him in return. That, and more. “It is true, I owe him my life,” he concluded his trail of thoughts, likely very much to Glain’s dismay, “Maybe we should ask him to come along. I bet he’d enjoy himself, and I imagine any excuse to get away from the station would be a good one.” Glain tried not to make too much of a face. His brother  _ had _ tried to commit suicide recently.

“Uh, we could always  _ ask _ , I suppose,” he said without a huge lot of enthusiasm however. “ _ Maybe _ if he’s not too busy, he could come. But I think he mentioned something about a special promotion he was offering at the moment…”

“It isn’t a discount,” Dziana said, “it’s a charity donation. Ten percent of the sales goes to the fund for Cardassian war orphans on Bajor. Mister Garak said there are many of them, alone, without families, and sometimes even separated from their siblings. Cardassia isn’t interested in bringing them home because they would have no status, unless they are adopted.”

“That’s true…” Glain pinched his lips. He looked at Elem fondly and held his hand tight in his. “I’m glad we found each other, brother. I hope I don’t upset you too much already?” Melekor didn’t know what to answer to that. The idea of children lost in a world that was inhabited by people their parents had fought against, was haunting. He was sure that, even if they were raised there with the best of intentions, they would never be truly integrated; the Bajoran dislike for Cardassians as a species, even if not directed at the children directly, would color their view of themselves. Even Trill, which didn’t have this history of direct animosity with the Union, had likely done things to Melekor’s own view of himself. He couldn’t imagine these children would have any better circumstances.

“I’d like to meet them,” he decided, not that he was any good at talking to children, “Can we?”

“Are you sure?” Glain had to ask. “I’ve heard things, you know… If they see us, they  _ may _ be afraid of us, because we’re Cardassians.” He sighed. It was hard to believe, and yet, not that much. “We’re the ones who left them behind,” he instinctively hugged Dziana. “I wish we wouldn’t have done this. I wish there were a place for them, and for all Cardassians who end up orphaned.”

“You could adopt them,” the little girl suggested.

“I bet they’re going to be extra cute,” Timun hid his face in his palm. “It’s going to be heartbreaking to see them and have to leave them there.”

“That’d be an option for you,” Melekor looked at Glain and pointed out, “ _ if _ you happen to find a man to be with, and there’s no other way to reproduce...” he ended the sentence in a suggestive manner, not really minding that Glain seemed embarrassed by the way his brother had suddenly disclosed his dubious sexual orientation. Melekor sighed a bit, “It hasn’t been  _ that  _ long since the Withdrawal, surely they won’t already think we’re all bad. And... when I was a child, I would’ve wanted to meet an adult Cardassian. Just one. That would’ve been enough.”

And the first one he met had to be  _ Garak _ , of all people, Glain brooded. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t satisfied with just one,” he chimed instead, trying to keep positive. He chose not to explain that Bajorans had been orphaning poor Cardassian children all through the Occupation, and had been taking care of them through all that time too. Whatever ‘ _ taking care _ ’ really meant.

“If you’re going to come with us, you should book tickets now,” Dziana interrupted.

“True, there weren’t a lot of places left, and the shuttle is leaving tomorrow morning at five hundred hours,” Timun echoed.

“Can’t you do that for us?” Melekor asked before he could stop himself, “I don’t feel like leaving the quarters again today,” he added without showing much emotion, other than perhaps a lack of happiness.

“I guess I could,” Timun got up and grabbed a shot of green. “I leave Dzi to your care, she seems comfy. You be nice to them,” he addressed her, “Oh, and, they’re not Ferengi, do  _ not _ try to touch their scales. If you want something, just ask for it or get it from the replicator yourself. Understood?” The little girl giggled but agreed, letting him go in relative peace.

“It’s going to be so nice to be on a mission with you! It’s my biggest adventure so far!” she turned to the Cardassians.

“Me too! I had never left Cardassian space before!” Glain echoed. “What about you, Elem?” A blatant expression of horror had settled on Melekor the moment he realized he and his brother were to be left alone with Timun’s child. The  _ nerve _ of that half-Vulcan jerk! Just walking out on them like that, not even asking if it was alright to leave them in charge of... of that thing! Melekor just answered some jumbled sounds in a grunt to the question, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

There was a moment of silence.

“Do you like children, Mister Rokat?” Dziana asked Glain.

“I do,” he admitted quite easily.

“It seems so. It also seems like Mister Elem doesn’t like them as much, or is it just me?” she turned to him. “Am I not quiet enough? If you’d tell how you turned the replicator into a transporter, I would do nothing but listen…” she tentatively suggested. “Timun told me you did that.”

“He never should have!” was the first thing that left Melekor’s mouth, more disapproval creeping into his expression, “And no, I’m not very good with children, sorry,” he admitted awkwardly, “they are very unpredictable, small, too fast, nasty, loud, uninhibited, violent and they all seem to take for granted that they are liked, instead of staying away like they should.”

“I wasn’t like that!” Glain protested, echoing with Dziana, also denying “I’m not like that,” albeit with less emotion.

“I can lock out my emotions and be very still, quiet and logical,” the girl informed. “But it is true that I am smaller than you, and probably faster too, because I am mostly Vulcan.”

“When I was a child I was very sweet and always praised for my quiet and proper behavior,” Glain declared, preferring not to expand however on how his grandfather constantly complained that he was too much like a girl. “I was already very law-abiding, like a good Cardassian. It’s in our genes to obey.” He got a bit uneasy as he thought of the story Elem told him of how he’d been bullied, and hurried a bit to add, “But being a Cardassian isn’t all about that either, of course, and I’m sure you would have liked children more if I’d been around you. Maybe you’ll be a bit easier around kids of your own kind? What do you think?” Melekor shrugged at that.

“Everything is twice the hassle with children, you don’t only have to think about what you say, you have to say it in a specific, weird, affectionate way – or whatever it is, I never figured it out,” he sent Dziana a worried look, then looked at Glain, “I don’t know how. It feels like being around children  _ demands _ something; Like  _ they _ want something. Need something. They  _ need _ something, and I don’t know what. I think it’s that I’m supposed to feel something for them, and I don’t. I  _ really  _ don’t. They are just... small, sadistic people who beat up people they don’t like,” he felt himself blush a bit in frustration at the inability to put things into words. Dziana nodded nonetheless as she seemed to relate.

“Maybe I should teach you the Vulcan neck grip? It’s useful when you really don’t know how to handle the situation and just want to get away from it, but  _ nobody _ must know you can do this or they’ll scold you a lot. You also have to make sure to hold the person when they fall, or they can get a commotion, and that is even worse,” she said with serious. “I don’t like children either. When they annoy me, I try to put physical distance or lock myself up somewhere. I used to deactivate them with nerve pinching, but I was told it’s not very civilized to do that. I want to grow up so it’s easier to be around adults, because they have more interesting things to say, and I want to have a job and work with machines. Machines are easier to understand than people, and nobody scolds you if you put them offline.” Melekor looked at Glain in a  _ see what I mean?  _ kind of way, before getting up to pace around amongst the furniture for a bit.

“No, thank you,” he answered stiffly as he found one of his shirts hung across a chair, ready for him to take it and start folding it, deeply dedicated to the task, “My mother wanted me to fight back, too. I find it easier to make other people do that for me. I don’t like... such primitive behaviors.” He decided to phrase himself, placing the shirt on the table, and starting to fold the next one in a similar way. Before Dziana could reply anything to that, Glain diverted her attention by proposing to replicate a Cardassian game toy for her, one to train memory and agility. She accepted eagerly and received a cube with smaller facets on each sides.

“It’s simple,” Glain explained the rules, “you have to press four facets, and you’ll see symbols appear on them. You need to find matching symbols of eight different colors, and select them in this order: white, orange, yellow, green, blue, black, red, purple. This will deactivate the facets, and the goal is to deactivate all the facets. If you want, you can start with only one side online,” he showed her how to change the settings. “It’s also possible to make it more difficult by randomizing the colors of the symbols whenever you make a mistake.”

“Timun would have sucked at this game if he didn’t have his glasses,” Dziana giggled. “Jabin chose to have eye surgery so he doesn’t need glasses,” she added as she started playing. Nobody replied and so she just focused on the game. Melekor appreciated his brother’s attention to make the situation more comfortable for everybody, but also felt guilty over his own inaptitude.

“How are you so good at it?” he finally asked, genuinely not understanding, “Talking and understanding... her?” he motioned towards the happy child.

“I don’t know… but you’re not the only one like that; take one of my colleagues, Sulek Maten, he’s terrified of his  _ own _ child!” Glain chuckled then blushed a bit. “Father often says I need to stop being a child and grow up… I’m not a child, I don’t want to be one,” he opted not to tell of how he indulged in acting like one around Siram, “but ...I like being around them, playing with them. Provided they are nice, of course. I take babies in my arms and they stop crying and fall asleep… I must have some sort of gift for that.” He looked at Dziana and back at Elem. “Maybe we should bring this kind of games to those kids on Bajor?” He sighed. “Those children will never grow up to fit in Bajoran society, they may end up growing up loathing themselves, Bajorans, and us too. I’m not sure anything good can come from this, and so… we should either take them back, or provide for them what they need to become Cardassians, unashamed to be what they are. We can’t just  _ ignore _ their existence and hope they’ll behave,” he shook his head.

“I suppose that admitting that they exist would be to admit that taking Bajor was a mistake,” Melekor made a slanted smile to which Glain nodded, then shook his head, becoming more serious, “Those kids will most certainly grow to hate themselves.  _ I _ did, and the people I grew up around weren’t even particularly prejudiced towards me. It was just  _ different _ . The first time I got drunk,” he remembered, “I was... I think, twenty-one. It wasn’t long after Maniel had disappeared,” the memory wasn’t pleasant, so he hurried on with his story, “I got the idea to try and cut off my scales – but I couldn’t do it. I thought of Father, and I couldn’t do that to the only link I had to him. So I gave up on that idea – and I didn’t get drunk again for a very long time. It was an altogether bad idea.” It felt like a blow in the back of the neck and Glain kept stunned in horror for a moment, then just pulled his brother close into a hug.

“I wish you never had to endure this!” he let out as a muffled cry. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I feel like I should have known and… I can’t help but wonder if my insistence in wanting to have a sibling could be that, somehow, I knew I had one somewhere ...or maybe I’m just delirious now. I just feel so guilty for all that happened to you. All that never should have happened to you.” Melekor folded his arms around his brother and held him close, nuzzling his hair and ear.

“No, no, don’t be sorry... just think about it – if my mother hadn’t left and stayed out of contact with Father, you might have never been born. And I wouldn’t trade your life away to undo any of what I’ve gone through. I love you, Brother, and I  _ wish _ I could have been there for you, when you were lonely and in pain, just like I have been.”

“I wish we could have grown up together,” Glain smiled, though a wetness had gathered in his eyes. “I’m sure you would have been a wonderful elder brother.”

Eventually they softened the mood a little. Talked of the clothes they would wear for the trip, wondering what would be the least offensive for Bajorans. As Glain showed what clothes he’d brought, he produced a delightful scarf made of large patch of shimmering blue-green fabric, delicate and insulating. Melekor’s mood dampened significantly when his brother revealed it was a gift from a lover, very sweet but  _ very enjoined _ .

“Aren’t you ashamed that you make people cheat on those they should be loyal to?” he asked. He felt almost personally offended, as if someone had betrayed  _ him _ . Glain wasn’t ashamed at all.

“Oh, I often have to make them admit they’re enjoined and reassure them that I’m not going to blackmail them, but when they do, they often end up talking a bit more of their family life too, and  _ that _ is quite nice. True, I get to be akin to a comfort man at times,” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Keelani says it’s a pity I’m sticking to archives, because I’d make a fantastic Conservator! She says that if I can make a lover confess he’s enjoined and rant about his family, then I could even make an innocent confess crimes they didn’t commit!”

“And what if someone cheated on you? W-wouldn’t you feel betrayed? Wouldn’t you be horribly hurt, both by your husband, but also by whoever it was that enabled him?” Melekor felt tears rising in his eyes, and wasn’t sure why he was taking this so personally.

“I think commitment is frightening,” Glain said frankly. “If you’re not committed, you can’t be betrayed. If I had to enjoin… I think I’d like for it to be clear whether we are going to be faithful or not. I suppose that the men I’ve slept with all had in common that their enjoinment was more of an arrangement to hide their sexual orientation, so their spouses knew they were having affairs. One of them admitted to me in tears that he was completely repulsed by his wife, and he was so ashamed…” he sighed sadly at the thought. “For another one it was the opposite. It was his wife who couldn’t. She tried to force herself to do it but then it was him who couldn’t do this to her. It’s complicated…”

“And what makes you think they didn’t just lie to make themselves feel better?” Melekor looked at Glain a bit more thoroughly, “And you choose to believe it, because it’s what makes  _ you _ feel better,” he accused.

“No,” the younger denied simply. “But if you’re looking for a criminal to blame with such charges, then you should talk to Garak, because he’s the one who had an affair with an enjoined woman,” he opted not to reveal more of the crime.

Whether Glain was squandering or not, Melekor couldn’t decide. He didn’t want to think so poorly of him, but it was still more comfortable to think Garak wasn’t that kind of person when it already pained him that his brother had to be like this. That those men had to be like this, when  _ he _ wanted commitment. Purpose. There had never been a purpose for him, never, and for a second, he was tempted to tell Glain the true extent of his lack of purpose. But if he did, he’d let him know what he was capable of. He might scare him off. As much as it stung, Melekor realized there was only one person he felt like telling those things to, and it was Timun Lykes, the one he’d leave behind. And so he waited for him, and talk they did.

##  * * *

The bottom line was “You want to join Starfleet? Don’t keep a half-Cardassian friend. I want to become a Cardassian citizen? I don’t get to keep non-Cardassian lovers. It’s so easy.” But it wasn’t as easy as Melekor put it when Timun stood in front of him in the darkness of the bedroom. To him, Melekor admitted he’d fallen in love with Garak, but that Garak wasn’t an option. There would be others, Timun said. Others who would cheat on him like Glain’s lovers did, Melekor said. Or others who wouldn’t because, unlike Glain’s lovers, they’d be happy with what they’d find in Elem – Melekor kept his doubts about the Vulcan’s endless optimism. It was sickening. Timun’s willingness to accept him fully and entirely was sickening, and so Melekor decided to show him the way to memories he’d buried and repressed for the most part. It was a tease, take or leave. Timun hesitated. Then took.

After this, the both of them realized they didn’t know each other so well after all. Melekor couldn’t understand how Timun could still stand there after seeing what he’d seen, the sheer horror and the bliss surrounding it all, “I wanted you to stop denying what I am! A monster. And it is not one that you should  _ love _ . I don’t want to be forgiven, or understood. I’m terrified of myself, and if you are not, what does that make you?”

“Just because you don’t love yourself doesn’t mean others can’t do it for you…” Timun answered to that. “Savras… Savras loves you like a brother. She loves the person she met… So do I. Your past is part of you but it’s not who you are… Is that so strange to conceive? We’ve all done shit in our youth. You a bit more than others, with that insane path of  parenting your mother chose… How can I do anything but respect the man who grew up in the darkness and walked away from it? How can I not offer my hand and support when his footing gets insecure? How can I wish for anything but to see him reach the light where he can finally warm his scales and heal his wounds?”

Melekor sighed to himself. Timun was a fool, blinded by his own emotions. He couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. When Glain knocked at the door, Melekor told the half-Vulcan to leave. “I need him more than I need you,” he took the sentence off of Garak’s lips and rephrased it onto his own. The words felt very true. Anxiously, the Vulcan complied. Melekor almost smiled once alone. They’d been rough again. He sat in the dark, messed up, perhaps, but he had accomplished his goal. To drive Timun Lykes away, to cleanse himself from the temptation to love him. Freedom was its own reward.

##  * * *

It wasn’t unheard of that people got called to the wrong trials, so Savras took the entire ordeal calmly, arriving at the grand doors of Trillian justice in a timely manner. There, she was made to sit in the hall to the right, which was a bit unusual, as it was usually reserved for witnesses. She wasn’t aware of anything she was required to testify for in the appointment she got but she didn’t worry. She had thirty minutes to wait. She studied the dull gray walls for imperfections, but found none. The Trillian justice system was just as polished as its interior; There were never any visible cracks, even though feasibly, there had to be some or Ywanna wouldn’t have won the previous case so easily. As time went by, Savras started to get irked – she might have gotten called to the wrong trial, but that feasibly meant the  _ real _ witness should appear at some point, right? Yet there was no one but her and twenty-one empty chairs lining the room’s walls.

With five minutes remaining to the trial, the outer door was locked – as per custom – and the door to the inner chamber unlocked. Savras didn’t even have the time to get up before a man clad in grey military clothes entered the room, hands crossed behind his back.

“Follow me, please,” he asked her, grey eyes entirely avoiding her.

A bit stunned, Savras did as asked. She couldn’t help but to wonder if it wasn’t a mistake after all. If this was about her – but she hadn’t done anything wrong! She’d done all she could to avoid upsetting the State, so what could it be about? The courtroom was empty, as no audience was allowed, and Savras found herself alone in a chair, lit up by lights so harsh she couldn’t even see the judge and assistants. She clearly wasn’t here to testify. There was something else that bothered her too, she realized as the forcefield closed around her; she didn’t have an attorney.

“I want to see a lawyer,” was the first thing that left her mouth, “or anything else, for that matter,” she added as she tried to squint through the light. The figures in front of her leaned together, and then there was the sharp sound of wood against wood.

“Savras Wayan, do you know why you sit in front of this court?” His voice was nasal, almost shrill, and entirely unpleasant.

“No,” Savras answered, getting more irate.

“Do you deny your involvement with Kedral Yedell, Mikal Froyaan, Zeskila Xitel, Mixel Deran also known as ‘Dragoman Vargas’-” the list went on, and with each name adding up to it, Savras sunk further back against the backrest of her chair; these were all names of people she knew. People she’d been working with for years, distributing her newspaper to, attempted to reason with, all of them cell leaders for various extremist groups. How had the State gotten their names? “-Kuyaal Vinar, Edzida Nidjar and Pasical Vorn?” She closed her eyes on the light, exhaling through her nose. This was it. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them have that.

“Those are all people I’ve had contact with, but -”

“Then you admit to High Treason?”

“High Treason!?” Savras smacked the arms of her chair and got up, hands balled into fists on either side of her hips.

“Do you deny that you have knowingly fraternized with terrorists, actively withholding their identities from Trill security?” His voice, she could swear she’d heard it somewhere.

“You don’t understand, I’m a  _ journalist _ , I have a code of conduct -”

“Under whose authority?”

“What?”

“You’re a journalist under whose authority?”

“I’m a volunteer journalist; I don’t -”

“So you’re not a real journalist,” concluded the judge, “Do you deny the accusations? Yes or no.”

“...No,” there were no places left to hide. She couldn’t pursue this on her own.

“The accused, Savras Wayan, is hereby found guilty of High Treason, for which there is only one applicable ruling: exile by immediate effect.”

“I want a lawyer!” Savras felt like her heart had stopped in her chest, and she had to sit again, staring into those lights, “I want a lawyer…”

“Your rights as a citizen were withdrawn by the point you confessed your guilt,” the voice informed her, “you have three hours to leave the planet.”

The forcefield remained on, but the lights went off, leaving her in complete darkness, and once the light turned on and the forcefield was deactivated, she and the military man were the only ones left in the room.

“If you’ll come with me –” she shrugged off the hand at her shoulder and got up, glaring at him, then led herself out of there, through the only working door; the one she had entered.

“How did it go?” asked Ywanna from across the room, getting up from the chair, a concerned air about her. Of course. Of  _ course _ .

“ _ You… _ ” Savras couldn’t see her anymore, for all the tears and fury that gathered in her eyes and head.

“Not good, I take it,” Ywanna closed the distance between them, then laid a hand on her shoulder. She relaxed a bit, rubbing her hand over her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Coincidences like these  _ could not  _ exist.

“The moment I learned you were under trial, I came as fast as I could. You  _ are _ my son’s best friend, and the longest lasting one at that,” she looked over at the guard, smiling a little, “I’ll take it from here. I have a freighter waiting, I can escort her as far away as needed.” Savras suspected she must have used her psychic influence on him, because he actually let her go.

 

It was a small size freighter of Denobulan design, sporting only four decks. Ywanna led them both straight to the cockpit, set herself in the pilot’s seat, and let Savras have the seat next to her, while she powered up the ship.

“We should take this to Federal court,” Ywanna fumed as the ship took off and left the surface, “they can’t do this to you, you have  _ a daughter _ .” Savras didn’t react much, she couldn’t feel what she felt. Nothing was real to her. As she wasn’t getting much response, Ywanna simply left orbit in silence, not even offering a last view of Trill. “Where do you want to go?” she asked, “The entirety of space is yours.”

“Home,” answered Savras in a weak voice, then set her feet on the seat in front of her, hiding her face in her knees.

“As that is no longer an option, I think we’ll go to DS9,” Ywanna set the autopilot, jolting them into warp, then got up. “Come, you need to rest. You’re extremely shocked, and if I should be entirely honest, your emotions are making it hard for me to concentrate.” The Betazoid took her arm, and led her to the bedroom that was located in the next room. There, she put Savras to bed between clean, pleasantly soft blankets, and sat by her side, holding her hand and stroking her fingers. “You’re a journalist, you have rights. I’ll make sure to let the Federation know about this; it’s an outrage.” Savras didn’t reply, simply closing her eyes.

It was a flavorless sleep in an uneventful flight. For the most part, at least. Savras woke up and Ywanna forced her to ingest something. Then she got back to sleep because she didn’t want to be awake and feel what she felt, think what she thought – it was too much. But space had other plans.

She woke up again, but to a sudden jolt this time, nearly falling out of her bed. Another jolt shook the ship, and she could hear Ywanna swearing loudly. Entering the cockpit, sparks were spitting out of the wall just to her left, and she threw herself into the opposite wall by instinct.

“What’s going on?!” Ywanna didn’t instantly answer, and Savras did the best she could do – took a seat by the other monitor, “Oh fuck no, what are  _ those? _ I’ve never seen-” fire hit them again and Savras’ forehead had an unfortunate meeting with the panel, which left her hissing in pure anger.

“We can hold them off long enough, but damn, this thing was  _ not _ meant for battle,” cursed Ywanna, rerouting powers from life support to the shields, “Send out a distress call for me, will you?”

“Aye, aye Captain,” muttered Savras in return, though it took her an awkwardly long moment to figure out how to do it, “How far from DS9 are we?”

“Half an hour – in fifteen, those ships will get off our tail; that’s when we get within sensor range,” another blast, and the panel next to Savras blew into sparks worthy of a firework. The battle, which wasn’t really a battle, but more like a full-out assault, intensified to the point where they were finally just drifting forwards, having lost engines to the abuse. Then, when they were literally minutes from losing forcefields too, the small assault vessels withdrew, and… disappeared. Savras stared at her screen.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Your Trillian  _ friends _ ,” Ywanna answered as she pouted in her chair. “I only just bought this ship; I have half a mind to file a complaint to get my damages paid for by the government.”

“No… no, they wouldn’t do that,” Savras blinked in disbelief, “I- I am not even important, I don’t understand.”  _ What _ had happened? What role had she played in that haul of ...terrorists? She had no idea. “I’m just a journalist, a writer…”

By her side, Ywanna chose not to comment on that. After all, she too was supposedly  _ just _ a journalist, a writer.

About five minutes later, a Federation vessel hailed them, offering to tractor them to the station and Ywanna let Starfleet do their thing. Once docked to the station, they were escorted to OP’s.

“You should request political asylum,” Ywanna pressed Savras’ hand as they walked.

“I can’t. There’s no proof… and Trill is a Federal world,” Savras’s throat still felt dry. “No one would believe me.”

The discussion with the station’s commander, Benjamin Sisko, was brief. The conclusion was that they had most likely run into Maquis raiders, and that Starfleet would look into it. Ywanna bothered Sisko enough about repairs that he promised that someone would take a look, but that he had to admit he had his doubts about the amount of wonders that even his best could do, it could “take weeks, maybe even months, from the looks of it”, which was most disappointing to the Betazoid.

“It was supposed to be a gift to my son,” she groaned.

The commander gave her an apologetic smile, pulling his right earlobe in some kind of tick as he twirled around, seemingly having a hard time to stay put in his chair. All the man could tell her was that, unfortunately, Melekor Kel wasn’t on the station anymore. No, he wasn’t headed to Cardassia. He’d departed for Bajor just earlier that morning.


	28. Day 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melekor, Glain, Timun and Dziana get on their way to Bajor, to harass and old man with questions and see Cardassian kids. This all makes for a long day, full of mysteries, revelations and new mysteries.

  


# Interlude

##    
Mission Bajor

  
  
  


* * *

## Day 25

 

As eerie as it was, it did seem like nothing had happened between Melekor and Timun – the Vulcan-Trill had managed to resume to his usual cheerful mood for Dziana’s sake. While the Cardassian brothers plotted and planned the details of their trip together, he’d spent the night awake with his daughter, reading about Bajoran culture and giving her school lessons once those were done being received by subspace and downloaded on a PADD.

In the small hours of the morning, he’d awoken the brothers and replicated breakfast and some take-away food for the trip. Everybody passed by the bathroom one after the other – Timun had thankfully made a quite good estimation by planning twice as much time for Glain as for everybody else – and all were ready in time to reach the airlock and embark on the shuttle among a little crowd of Bajorans. Glain tried to be relaxed, but he didn’t really like the way people looked at him suspiciously. And why  _ him? _ Melekor didn’t seem to have as much problem. Maybe it was simply that Glain too was suspicious of the Bajorans.

The trip itself was thankfully not so eventful. The Cardassians managed to get a little more sleep through series of guarded micro-naps, until lunch was served, at which point the adults relaxed in a bit of digestion while all the children immediately assimilated the energy from their meal and started running everywhere. Dziana found another girl who was just trying to avoid the other children, as she did, and they started to bond over their mutual distaste of other creatures their age. Tareeka wasn’t very interested in engineering, but she was good at geography (and had a weird fascination for stones, which she collected). After Dziana told of the various destinations she was headed to, Tareeka proceeded to lecture her on those areas, until the Vulcan child mentioned traveling with Cardassians.

“Real Cardassians?” the Bajoran looked at her in disbelief. “That’s not possible.” So Dziana showed her to Melekor and Glain, and before he knew, the latter had been dragged away to answer further questions from the curious girl. She wanted to see Glain’s face some more and after that, she wanted to remove his hood and touch his ridges. The young man scoffed.

“And would it be polite of me to ask to touch your nose? That’s  _ extremely _ indecent!

“My nose is normal.  _ You  _ are weird,” the girl said.

Dziana decided to derail the conversation back to geology at that point, letting Tareeka expand on the various sorts of stones that could be found in the provinces of Derenis and Bahmal. It was fine until some other kids passed by and noticed the scales under Glain’s hood. Before the Cardassian knew, half a dozen of Bajoran kids were cornering him, asking a lot of questions – quite vehement for some of them. He was a little afraid but tried to keep calm, “Maybe you want to play a game?” he suggested.

“A Cardassian game?” one of the kids snarked.

“It doesn’t have to-”

“There’s a game we could play,” Glain was interrupted by another child, “It’s called ‘ _the_ _Underground_ ’. You’re the Cardassian, you have to catch us. But if we hit you in the back, all the prisoners are released. Because you’re a real Cardassian, we get to hit you for real too.” Glain made a horrified face.

“That is barbaric! And I don’t think it would be appreciated, really! Don’t you have tamer games like ‘ _ one, two, three, Brinn winter _ ’?” he asked, then developed. “Someone counts ‘one, two, three, Brinn winter’ against the wall, then turns around to see everybody. They’re allowed to step closer each time he’s not looking, but when he is, they must freeze in a position, and repeat the same position every three or four sequences. The counter must identify the patterns of each person, and if they fail to freeze in the right position or if they move, they’re eliminated. To win, they must reach the counter without any mistake.”

“We have a game a bit like that, but we don’t have to repeat the same positions,” a girl pointed. “It’s called ‘ _ one, two, three, smile _ ,’ and the counter has three seconds to make the others laugh, but mustn’t laugh themselves.” That was the most ridiculous and useless game Glain had ever heard of.

“We could try both,” Dziana suggested. “And ours on Trill is ‘ _ three, two, one, Joined _ .’ Except we start counting down from five to one, but the counter can say ‘Joined’ at any number, and everybody must freeze in that pose, and then freeze again in the same pose when the same number comes again.”

They agreed to try the three games, and it was quickly found that Glain must be cheating because he was too good at remembering everything. He opted to tone it down by making it easier on the children and losing on purpose, and it went better until some parents came to get their children and started calling him a Cardassian pervert (Glain was fine with being Cardassian, but “pervert” was quite offensive). Mostly, they were getting quite aggressive.

“Listen, he’s my friend and he’s nice,” Dziana defended him. “You can leave if you don’t like it, else I will deactivate you.”

“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary!” Glain held her back. “We’ll just… return to our seats.”

“But we were having fun!” complained Cheral, the boy who wanted to play ‘ _the_ _Underground_.’ Glain shrugged.

“If you meet another Cardassian someday, maybe you can play ‘ _ one, two, three, Brinn winter _ ’ with them.”

It was a strange feeling, really. At last, he sat back next to his brother and relaxed into a nap until the arrival. Timun too, dozed, and Melekor was left awake in the middle, looking at the sleeping Vulcan-Trill. He seemed so, so sweet when relaxed and vulnerable like that… Melekor couldn’t help but feel bad, so bad, for hurting him the way he had; he wanted to apologize, profoundly, but he knew taking a step backward would only be an error. Sighing, he tried to put distance between him and his feelings.

Soon, they landed. It was, it would seem, an exceptionally sunny day in this part of Bajor. Not that it made it much better, considering it was also breezy, which left a chill hanging in the air. As they passed through the security gates however, Melekor and Glain were stopped and separated, each of them taken to a different room. Melekor had to deal with his entire bag being turned inside out. As if it weren’t enough, the officer also undid some of the seams, “ _ just in case _ .”

“What are these?” she held up one of his capsules of phelenaxinide, her green eyes sparkling viciously.

“I take medication against my psychic abilities, I’m half-Betazoid,” he explained rather saltily, “I need it to live.” She rose her eyebrow.

“Half- _ Betazoid? _ How did that even happen?”

“Don’t ask me,” an expression of terror flickered over his face, “I don’t want to think about that, either.”

Nevertheless, the controller was much softer on him after that confession, and he was let go with all his belongings back into his half-shredded bag. Well outside, he wandered into the large meeting hall – a spheric glass-and-marble building, which felt almost lika a cathedral – and joined Timun and Dzianna, where they sat, on one of the round benches that circled a  _ tree _ that grew in there, just like that. Glain hadn’t been let go yet.

“They nearly destroyed my bag,” Melekor complained as he sat next to Timun, hugging his bag like it was about to burst into pieces.

“If we had a needle and some thread I could probably repair it,” the Vulcan said. “I wonder if I still have my surgical sewing set in my medikit,” he searched in his own bag for a moment. “Ha! I knew I wasn’t as stupid as not to have it!” he collected it. “I know, it’s  _ very _ old-style, but technology can always fail you in a way or another, and that’s when a bit of steel and a thread can save lives,” he told as he examined the damages of the bag. “At the university, one of my teachers was the better safe than sorry type like that. Actually, that was when I first learned about Cardassians. Miss Terana Tyx was a great admirer of a genius scientist called Crell Moset; he was amazingly brilliant. And still is, I believe.”

“Crell Moset,” Melekor echoed as he allowed Timun to work on his bag.  _ Crell Moset _ , one of the names he’d heard his mother call in her private conversations. He was a Cardassian? A  _ scientist _ . One of the kind that Timun would learn about when he studied to become a doctor. Could it be... could it be that  _ he _ was the one who had turned Melekor into this haphazard image of a male? Somehow, that concept hurt even more than the mere change in itself had. He swallowed, “ _ Crell Moset _ ... What kind of scientist did you say he was?” he asked as he saw Glain appearing in the distance and waved at him to come over.

“Some kind of exobiologist?” Timun answered vaguely. “He’s done a  _ lot _ of things, curing incurable viruses and those kind things. If I should be honest, what I read and was taught about him seemed almost like there’s nothing he can’t solve or heal. It’s quite fascinating. And amidst all that research, he even has time to go to the opera and read hundreds of books,” he chuckled. “Smart, charming, and even quite handsome too… He seems like quite a character, really.”

The conversation stopped there for a moment as Glain approached, quite pale. He never told what had happened during that security check and the others had the sensitivity not to inquire much. He didn’t seem hurt, physically at least, and his mood resumed to something more cheerful and relax as they left for the transport station, all while talking about Crell Moset. Glain too knew the name –  _ all _ of Cardassia knew the name, according to him – and he had a very positive opinion of the man. He hadn’t expected however that Melekor would suggest he’d like to  _ meet _ the scientist. Both he and Timun were stunned and had to ask why, which Melekor hadn’t anticipated. He blushed in sudden apprehension for he didn’t want to tell the real reason.

“He sounds attractive, that’s all,” he mumbled a ridiculous lie, which made his blush even worse.

“My brother has the hots for Doctor Bashir,” Dziana echoed to that, causing Timun to cough.

“You’re  _ such _ a slut,” Melekor shot at him. Still, that hurt. To think Timun would have a family with Savras, and seduce men on the side… “I can’t wait to be done with this whole thing, and  _ then _ I’ll tell Savras about all that,” he hissed venomously.

“I’m letting you go on with your life like you wanted, so let me go on with mine,” the Vulcan whispered back to him. “Or are you  _ jealous _ of her? What’s wrong with you?” he squinted but raised his hand at once. “No, don’t answer me. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to take the risk to think there might still be the least thing between us. The only thing I want to hear from you now is that it’s over, that you feel nothing but contempt for me, but that you care enough for Savras not to hurt  _ her _ .”

“So you want me to lie to her?” Melekor asked, stopping dead in his tracks, “You want me to lie to my best friend, just so you can keep her? You’re not just a slut – you’re selfish, too. I’m  _ glad _ I didn’t dive deeper into that particular pool – it’s not contempt I feel. It’s disgust. You’re a disgusting, selfish, manipulative slut, Timun Lykes, and I don’t even know why I’m on this planet with you.” Tears had gathered in his eyes, threatening to bleed out over his cheeks. All he wanted was to be held, and to hold Timun. And to say that he was sorry, that he didn’t hate him, that he didn’t even know what he felt for him. But it was too late for those things. And it was for the better.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Timun swallowed on the hurt he felt. “Now I think that will be  _ quite _ enough.”

##  * * *

The roads of Derenis province were mostly made of barren earth and nasty small pointy stones that made the carriage bounce in rather unpleasant ways. Pulled by large Gunji jackdaws, the small vehicle was the fastest way to travel between the nearest shuttle port and the monastery of Mak’aandara. Two hours of ride were what it took to reach the sacred grounds – plenty of time for Timun to narrate what reckless things he’d done in his youth and why his mother had explicitly forbidden him to ever drive anything that could be driven ever again.

Upon reaching their destination, the carriage stopped near a building serving as gate to the domain, and Timun cared to get out first, telling their driver to stand by for a moment. There were some six Bajoran officers walking around the entrance of the sacred grounds, all of them trying to figure who the visitors might be. One of the men approached and quickly stiffened at the sight of Glain and Melekor. From there, it went from Timun and Dziana simply asking to see the prylar, to the guards inquiring about the Cardassians instead.

“If we had known we were going to a spiritual place,” Melekor glared at Timun, speaking in the common Federal tongue by habit, “we would’ve been respectful enough not to come at all. We have no business being here.” That last bit was something the Bajorans could understand very well.

“Indeed, you  _ don’t _ ,” the guard came closer to inspect him. “Do you have anything to declare? Weapons? Chemicals?” he pulled at the bag, noticing the stitches. “You tried to hide something there, did you?”

“ _ I _ stitched up that poor bag,” Timun cleared his throat. “Your colleagues from the aerospace port were already quite thorough in their inspection…”

“Please, can you get the man so we can settle this matter and be on our way?” Glain insisted, speaking in Bajoran in hope it would ease the communication since he was about sure the man didn’t have a universal translator either. “Our friend said it won’t take more than few minutes,” he sighed. “Just because we are Cardassians does not mean we’re more than simple citizens. It’s the first time we set foot on this planet-”

“And where did you learn our language?” the man interrupted.

“On Cardassia of course, is it so strange? I’m a filing clerk of the Bureau of Alien Affair, currently attached to Gul Derain by order of Central Command, and I am here only to retrieve information about Cardassian war orphans. The orphanage of Chak’inero in Bahmal province is our next stop,” he pulled a more formal attitude, glaring at the man. “Now please, carry on,” he crossed his arms and stepped back. It wasn’t as if the guard had the actual means to verify that and report that irregular behavior, now, was it?

“It won’t take  _ long _ ,” Timun held his wrists together in a Ferengi kind of pleading way. “ _ Please _ .” The man grunted.

“I’ll see if he’s available.” He turned around and told his colleague to keep a close eye on the group before passing the gates.

 

Inside the orb room, Prylar Mersai was deeply sunk into thoughts, sitting on a pillow and inhaling the fumes from the smokes around him. He wasn’t yet brave enough to indulge in the orb experience he’d been invited for, but he found that he  _ was _ getting there. Just a little bit further, and he’d find it within himself to brave the storms of his heart and look into the Orb of Choice.

As the door opened, he stirred a little and looked at the familiar face. “Is anything the matter?” The guard cleared his throat a bit, embarrassedly.

“I have two Vulcans and two Cardassians at the gate, coming from Trill to deliver a message to you… I am extremely sorry to interrupt your meditation, but… this situation is a bit unexpected and unusual…”

“Two  _ Cardassians _ ?” Mersai scrounged up his nose, “They have some nerve, coming here after all they wrought… Very well,” he bit his lips together and got to his feet, brushing the folds of his robes with his hands, “I thought the Vulcans lived on Vulcan,” he continued, “I don’t like where this is going... are you sure it’s me they want?”

“Unless you know of another Prylar Mersai who’s been on DS9…” the guard said. “I have never seen Vulcans before, but I’m quite sure that’s what they are,” he helped the prylar out of the room. “They have pointed ears, arched-up eyebrows, and I assume their clothes are quite Vulcan too…” he said although wasn’t exactly an expert in Bajoran fashion already, let alone alien ones. He still took the opportunity that they had a little walk to go to detail the visitors further, going on a bit about all the reasons for which he didn’t like the Cardassians, concluding that he disliked the younger one just a bit less than the other one, “but then, they’re  _ Cardassians _ .”

When Mersai got to see them with his own eyes, he had to reckon that it was true that the older Cardassian was  _ particularly _ nasty-looking with those black eyes. He’d never seen one as creepy as before, and he’d seen  _ his fair share _ of them.

“Yes?” he tried not to look at the creepy one.

“Greetings, Prylar,” Timun spoke, bowing courteously again. “Would you happen to remember a young Trill man? Around twenty-seven or twenty-eight – no older than thirty – white of skin, with stark markings but thinner than mine,” he pointed at his temples, “more like elegant specks on the sides of his forehead and framed by orderly sleek black hair. His eyes were of a deep blue color, like the velvet of night sky,” he phrased himself in a poetical way. “The man himself must have been gentle, mannered, polite, and very proper, with great coordination and a discreet yet strong confidence. His name was Devrail Enkilan.” Melekor, who had been holding onto his brother’s shoulders, unintentionally tightened the grip as the picture of the man was painted out in his mind. It  _ couldn’t be _ .

“No,” answered the Prylar rather suspiciously, “and I  _ would _ remember if there ever was a Trill like this at the temple aboard the station, you aren’t exactly religiously-orientated, are you?” Then his gaze flickered over the Cardassians, “I can’t help you. Any of you. I’m sorry,” he looked back at Timun, “I find it hard to believe you came all the way here  _ just _ to ask about Trills.”

“Wait! You  _ must _ have met him!” Timun held up his hand. “It was around that time when strange things happened, like snow on the Promenade, birds everywhere… Maybe those memories overshadow him a bit. He was with his wife, Ejdra. She was pregnant. You asked them to let you know when the child would be born,” he detailed. Mersai frowned, then squinted.

“Come to think of it, I  _ do _ recall a Trill like that being on the station at the time – yes, yes,” he nodded and grasped at the memories the same way he grasped at his chin, “but his name was Dezed Nemerin, and he didn’t have company,” he shrugged. “ _ That _ Trill attended a couple of sermons and expressed interest in our culture. But as you can see, it’s not the same person.”

“Dezed Nemerin,” Timun repeated, blinking in confusion, but his mind spinning fast. What had he talked about in Devrail’s presence? What exactly had he and Savras mentioned in that hotel room? They could have picked any other hotel, but was there even the slightest chance that, somehow, they had been monitored? That this technical problem had been staged to bug the room? Savras was a political underdog after all.

“Prylar, may I ask for a favor? I  _ need _ to confirm this man’s identity, but for this, I would need to know exactly what you saw. I would need you to let all the memories of this man resurface while touching your fingers with mine,” he held up his hands, presenting them with neutrality still. “I would only see what you are willing to show me. Nothing more,” he stared into his eyes, already preparing for a mental contact.

“No, you may  _ not  _ ask for a favor,” the monk stepped back, exasperated, “I don’t know what shady things you’re involved in, but I’d rather you took your  _ Cardassian _ friends and leave already. I’ve helped you enough as it is!” Next to Glain, Melekor cleared his throat a little, catching the Prylar’s attention before throwing himself onto a wild ride of a deceitful rant that neither Glain nor Timun had expected to hear – yet, they managed not to let their surprise transpire as Melekor spoke.

“I don’t believe it’s necessary to harass this poor man any further, and I don’t blame him for his distrust,” he told Timun and stepped up in front of his brother, letting his translator shift his speech into Bajoran, “The truth is, we’re not here on the behalf of the Central Command. We’re... part of a Cardassian underground movement, a terrorist cell if you prefer. The man we’re looking for was one of our inter-species operatives.  _ Was _ ,” he made a bit of a face, “He’s been missing for three months already and we have reasons to suspect he’s been acting as a double agent on behalf of the Obsidian Order, so we are investigating his numerous pseudonyms. We were led to believe you knew him as Devrail Enkilan; you were  _ supposed _ to know him as Devrail Enkilan. The fact that the name you mention is a different one is compromising on its own, but we can’t just go on suspicion; just because he fits the description, doesn’t mean he’s the man we’re looking for. For all we know, Dezed Nemerin is just a civilian. Please, Mister Mersai, if you could show my Vulcan friend just a glimmer of a memory of the man you met, that would be enough for us to verify whether or not our suspicions are correct.” The Prylar looked at him with suspicion.

“I never heard of Cardassian terrorists nor that Obsidian Order you mentioned,” he squinted. The guard next to him cleared his throat a bit.

“There has been rumors about that Obsidian Order,” he revealed. “It’s supposed to be Central Command’s internal inquisition, the one that polices cases of internal corruption.” Mersai frowned.

“Yet, it wouldn’t be the first time a Cardassian lied to me,” he sniped, although something in his voice revealed that he was starting to reconsider his position.

“Why would I lie about being a freedom fighter, of all things?” Melekor asked, raising an eyeridge, “It would be to take a very big risk, if you were to call back home and inquire about me, about us.” Mersai inhaled through his mouth, then sighed loudly.

“I’ll show you just a brief moment,” he agreed finally, clearly still not very in love with the idea, “but nothing more!” he warned the Vulcan as he stepped forwards, finally laying his fingertips against the other’s.

“You have our thanks,” Melekor nodded and stepped back behind his brother again.

_ “Please, show me absolutely everything about Dezed Nemerin,” _ Timun melded and started to explore already as well, where the man wasn’t conscious. His spirituality didn’t make him anything resistant to the bond; he was all passion and emotions, and navigating his mind was a thrilling ride on a wild river. A thought hurled to the next one in a cascading effect. Timun was surprised at how effortless the information gathering was – it’d never been so easy to penetrate a mind, but it was also the first time he explored a Bajoran. It was nothing like the exercises with his mother, or communicating with Elem. Even Savras had a lot more structure and potential to resist. He brought forth feelings of bliss from the man’s own experiences, blended together in a new flavor of content serenity, overlaid with flashing visions of the wormhole. He barely had to pull anything. It all came so easily… Oh, there were doubts lingering, but Timun spun them into something more diffuse, drawing up more pride and confidence.

At last he gently broke the contact and faked a certain surprise. “You have a… very strong mind,” he muttered, blinking a little. “Your katra is strong. We have what we need and won’t deter you from your meditation any longer. Prylar,” he told. Almost stumbling, he stepped back, bowing a little.

“Are you fine?” Dziana worried. Timun just nodded as an answer, gulped and smiled.

“His katra is strong,” he repeated, steadying himself with a hand on her head.  _ “Don’t you say anything else right now, be silent, my sweet,” _ he demanded of her. “You are ready, Prylar.”

Mersai felt a bit unsteady too, though not as much as the Vulcan. Still, he assumed it might be due to his heavy meditation session.

“I believe the Prophets think so too,” he admitted, smiling blissfully, then cleared his throat and shook it off, “Was it him?” he asked, curiously.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Melekor interrupted, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Mersai. And apologies for the hassle we’ve caused,” he bowed his head to the Bajoran, then backed away a little, dragging Glain with him and turning to walk away.

“Uh, how anti-climactic,” muttered Mersai, though he could understand the viewpoint of those… Cardassians, “Safe travels to you, and best wishes to your… whatever you’re striving for.” He waved a little. What had just happened...?

 

“What in dear Cardassia just happened!?” Glain burst as well as soon as they were back inside the carriage and well out of earshot.

“Yes, I’d like to know too!” Timun turned to Melekor. “That was  _ quite _ uncharacteristic of you! Do you have any idea who that man would be? I didn’t even tell you in which strange circumstances I met him!” The engineer rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest and the bag’s sling that laid there.

“Really, Lykes? I’m not allowed to help out anymore without getting you all suspicious? You wanted to mindmeld with that priest, and I just wanted this whole ordeal to be over already because my feet were starting to hurt,” he defended himself, glaring toward the Vulcan, “And since I was so graceful as to help you, I’d like to see what he showed you. It’s the least you can do for me.” Timun couldn’t help but laugh.

“ _ I don’t believe you! _ ” he chanted then got more serious, “Now’s time to trade. I’ll show you the mental picture, you’ll tell what you know. The truth. And I’ll oblige in delivering the rest of the information I have about him.”

“You wound me,” Melekor burst out, dramatically spreading a hand over his chest, realizing a bit too late that he’d picked up that gesture from Garak. Internally facepalming, he swallowed and lowered his hand, “Very well, if you won’t accept the truth for what it is, I’ll just have to make up a lie that lays closer to what you were expecting to hear,” he pointed out, “But first, I want the first half of the trade. I’ve  _ deserved it _ .” Timun found there was something ingrate about that, but took his hand to ease the meld.

“I give you the picture, but I want the name,” he held up his bargain before diving.  _ “This is our man,” _ he showed the face he’d seen at the hotel. From this point, Melekor froze in place, blank. Shocked. Then he pushed Lykes out of his mind and blocked him out. What he’d just found felt just as bad as it did good.

“So, you saw someone,” Glain decided to make a guess of his own – nothing like a good enigma game – “A Trill man who is not who he pretended to be and goes by various names. One about my brother’s age. One he knows of. One whom he is shocked you met ...because that is something that should have been impossible.” He looked at his brother, serious. “Maniel Dalkar?” he asked. Melekor stared through the window, refusing to confirm or infirm. “Secret intelligence…” Glain couldn’t help but feel satisfied that his gut feeling was right. Right in that moment, Melekor wanted to slap his little brother for betraying him. Truly, he should never have told him about those things. His throat felt thicker and painfully constricted, his eyes ached and his nose itched.

“That’s ridiculous,” he messed up his voice, which sounded just as distorted as he felt.

“That’s  _ very _ ridiculous,” Timun echoed, though his throat felt quite dry too. “And honestly, I don’t want it to be true. Tell me it’s  not true, Elem, because that man was in a hotel room with Savras and me. He was a repairman, fixing the room’s computer, which was  _ quite conveniently _ defective. And,” he grinned but wasn’t so amused, “in front of him, we mentioned you, your peculiar musical taste for SSS, your mother, my ability to get into detention, yours for getting into the infirmary and, what else? Garak, but that was more like advertizing for his shop.” He looked at him, and added, still in the incertitude repertoire, though he knew the answer well, “Did I  _ flirt _ with him?” he spied on the reaction.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Melekor barked at the other two, finally getting back to his senses, “Just because a dead man walks, doesn’t mean he’s working in some conspiracy level intelligence service,” he rolled his eyes. “Maybe he just wanted to disappear, have a new life. Maybe he enjoyed the feeling of switching lives every now and then – there are people like that,” he blew on the glass window, getting more angry than before, “And you probably  _ did  _ flirt with him, because you’re a fucking slut, Lykes.”

“Is it bad to be a slut?” Dziana asked.

“No, it’s not,” Timun answered, “And I didn’t flirt with him, though  _ Savras _ made me consider it,” he cared to clarify still. “But I’m growing worried. A dead man walks in my and Savras’s room. Few days later, she’s missing at her job and nobody managed to call her. She had an appointment for another court trial, which she didn’t know what it was about… If she’d been imprisoned for whatever stupid reason, her employer would have been notified she couldn’t come to work. As a doctor, I doubt any sort of medical problem would have gone unnotified either. So, yes, I find this suspicious and worrying.” He turned to Glain however. “What makes you think that man would be a secret intelligence agent? That was quite a daring guess, or do you know more?”

“Mere Cardassian instinct,” the archivist answered. “Unless you prefer to call it paranoia or other inglorious names.  _ I _ prefer to call it survival instinct.”

“Maybe he works for my mother,” Melekor muttered, rolling his eyes at the equal ridiculousness of that idea, “Oh, but the two of you are welcome to discuss this at all lengths – just leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with these... ideas of yours. Maniel Dalkar was – is – my friend. I don’t want to hear anything bad about him, nor do I want any plotting against him. Just leave it,” he shot a glare at Timun, “or I’ll make you sorry for your pursuit.”

“I’m not as stupid as to run after this kind of person,” Timun shook his head and crossed his arms. “And I sincerely hope we are wrong. Not that I wish for your friend to be dead, but rather… if he’s still alive, I would hate for him to be this kind of person. Meanwhile, isn’t Savras your friend too? Are you not worried for her?” he felt uncomfortable having to ask. Dziana tugged at his clothes, loving herself against him in search of comfort.

“Is Savras in big troubles?” she asked.

“I hope not,” Timun muttered and took her on his lap to hug her.

“Savras can take care of herself; I have full confidence in her; she’s tough,” Melekor smiled a little and rubbed the back of his head against the pillowy head-rest, “now if it were  _ you _ who were in trouble,  _ maybe _ I’d be worried,” he glinted at a grin, “I don’t think Savras could take losing another lover. You should think about that before you go out in the world getting all loose and frivolous again.” He was sharp and there was nothing dishonest about it. Timun took it in, silent for a while.

“You’re right. It’s ironic however… I loosened my tongue, talking of you and those sweet cheek ridges of yours, and brought your best friend back from the dead. I guess I might be ill-suited for political plots, but at least I’m a damn good doctor.”

“You did what?” Melekor blushed profoundly, sitting up rather stiffly and glaring at Timun, “No, wait, I don’t want to know. This is outrageous,” he pointed a finger at his former friend while relaxing back in his seat, “I don’t want you to talk like that about me  _ ever _ again.”

##  * * *

After a return to the shuttleport and another transport to another province, the little group made it to the orphanage. Night was only just starting to creep over this part of the world, allowing one to wonder if that day would ever end. Not all lights were on in the building, but it gave a better indication as to where to find life. There were no guards controlling entrances as the group came into the courtyard. Timun had to hold Dziana to prevent her from running all over the place already – after all those hours of transportation and so little physical activity, she was overflowing with energy. Walking toward the door nearest to the lighted windows, they could notice, before even looking inside, that everybody seemed to be eating. The smell of food floated in the air, triggering twists of empty stomachs. Timun knocked at the door and, after a while and repeated knocking, a woman opened. At the sight of Dziana, she had to specify that the orphanage was only for Cardassian children – Timun specified a bit harshly that she was his daughter and that he would never abandon her. At the sight of the Cardassians, the woman had hopes that they had come to adopt, but they had to disappoint. Still, she invited them to come share dinner with everybody, allowing them to sit with the children in hope it might change their mind, maybe.

Chak’inero’s orphanage wasn’t a large one, nor was it at full-capacity, being home to few children, their host told them. It was a tidy building, warm inside, with thick, lush carpets pelting the floor. Clearly a home made for walking barefooted. The dining hall was small, valved and cozy, and around the oval table sat eight children clad in green tunics and linen pants, ages ranging between ten to thirteen, Melekor estimated; three girls were sitting at one end, eating soup in silence, three boys at the other end, and in the middle, opposite to each other, sat two who were more difficult to gender. The one whose back was to the door, was slouching slightly over the bowl, trying to pick something out of the soup.

Melekor, who had wanted to see Cardassian orphans, just stood in the doorway and watched. The silence was unreal to him. Were these actual, living children? They were  _ so _ well-behaved, he couldn’t help but to feel a sting in his chest as he thought back of his own younger self. They looked so much like he had, but they had no parents, only each other. Each other and the Bajorans – people who feared and despised them on a purely subconscious level.

A pair of dark, nearly black eyes were staring at him; it was the other one whom Melekor had issues defining. They put the bowl down slowly and elbowed the girl to their right in the side, and reached for the slouching child sitting in front of them with a foot, motioning towards the door. They too looked over. Their green eyes echoed the question which wasn’t asked, but simply observed, not daring to raise hopes.

Melekor was hopelessly speechless; he’d never seen something so adorable and painful before in his life. These children were  _ different _ , though he was admittedly still a bit awkward in that he wasn’t sure how to act with them. All he knew, was that he was smiling, and it wasn’t a fake smile. By his side, Glain stared at them just as much, as if they couldn’t be real at first, then, when they started to react to their presence, his green gaze turned fond. Hurt too. Timun was right. It was going to be painful to just leave them there.

 

Eventually they did start to socialize with the children. There, Timun’s attention was picked by the androgynous child with dark eyes who seemed very fascinated with Melekor. “That one doesn’t talk – we call him Kilem,” Mera, the Bajoran woman warned. “Don’t take offense.”

“Selective mutism?” Timun asked as he looked into those inquisitive eyes beneath him – the orphan must be around eleven years old, but looked quite sharp and intelligent. Of course, not a single word left him and Mera shrugged.

“I have my scanner with me, I could take a look to see if there are any neurological causes to this mutism,” Timun offered as he sat  between Dziana and the other androgynous youth who was picking fibers from the soup before. The Vulcan-Trill almost startled as the child looked at him, revealing a large scar on the side of their cheek, poorly hidden by a strand of jet black hair.

“Explosion,” the child answer the unspoken question. “I’m Terek,” he followed up. “It’s not my real name. I don’t remember it,” he looked at his soup and at the discarded fibers on the side. “They feel like twigs and hair on the tongue, and I don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s good you know what you want or not,” the doctor appreciated.

One of the girls, Najar, decided to ask the Cardassians why they had come. “We brought some toys,” Melekor told unsteadily, “and we figured that since we were on Bajor anyway, that we’d visit some of you.” He felt like it was a weak answer. Najar seemed to agree.

“ _ Toys? _ ” she repeated, a bit sharply, “We don’t need toys.”

“ _ I _ want toys,” contradicted a small, blue-eyed boy at the other end of the table, “if she doesn’t want hers, can I have them? I’m Toral, by the way” he continued eagerly.

“I’m sure there will be enough for-” Melekor froze in place as Kilem had all but crawled into his lap to hold onto his cheeks and stare into his eyes, a perplexed expression on his face- “Kilem, I’m sorry, but it’s a little bit rude to-”

“You’re not Cardassian,” figured the child in a voice that was a bit raspy from rarely being used. “Your eyes are different. Larger. Darker,” he developed his argument, neutral in tone and expression.

“Kilem… you’re being disorderly,” complained Najar despite the surprise of hearing him talking, for a change.

“What are you?” asked the child bluntly. Melekor cleared his throat again, feeling a bit anxious, and then something else, a creeping presence in his mind.

“Half-Betazoid,” he told the child, as he found it impossible not to answer.

“What is a Betazoid?”

“It’s a telepathic specie from Betazed –” it was the grey-eyed girl who had answered in Melekor’s stead – “I read about it in Nesaar’s database. They are part of the Federation, a matriarchal society. Extremely peaceful, harmless and vulnerable,” she patted the table with one hand, happy with her bragging. Kilem drew back to his chair to continue eating his soup.

“And what are you, sir?” the girl who hadn’t spoken yet asked Timun. “And her?” she gazed at Dziana.

“Vulcans,” the little girl answered proudly. “And part-Trill. From planet Trill, a class M planet on the edge of the Federation.”

“What are the toys we’re getting?” Toral went back to his subject of interest.

“Cardassian cubes,” Dziana answered again. “It’s a useful and entertaining game to train your photographic memory – a skill highly valued in Cardassian society that all children should develop as much as they can. I can teach you how to play later, it’s simple and fun, with different levels of difficulty.”

Timun looked at the children, especially those who were more silent so far. Then decided to ask the name of those who hadn’t declared it yet. Leyal was the grey-eyed girl who knew things, Ziyem was the last girl, and the two other boys were Midrin and Surak. When asked his name, that last one decided to speak some more.

“Are we ever going to return to Cardassia?” he asked.

“It’s complicated,” answered Glain, who was sat in the spot between Kilem and Midrin. “You need a family to have a status, which means you would need to at least be adopted. Else, it probably wouldn’t be better than here.” He could have told more about the misery he’d seen at the Periphery of Lakat, but that was something best kept away from Bajoran knowledge.

“Are you going to adopt one of us then?” Midrin asked, staring at him with warm brown eyes. Glain sighed.

“I’m a bit young for this kind of responsibility.”

“And you?” the boy redirected his hopes towards Melekor – Kilem glared daggers at Midrin, as to tell him “ _ I saw him first, don’t you dare _ .” Melekor didn’t at all notice, but just turned his attention to the soup, hiding himself in the act of eating.

“I presently have neither family nor status,” he told as carefully as he could, “I’m not from Cardassia, I wasn’t raised there. I hope to find my family and reconnect with them there, if they will want me. But regardless of whether they do or not, I’ll do my best to integrate into Cardassian society,” he sipped from the spoon. “So you see, it’s never too late to find your way back. More difficult, certainly, but not too late.” It was the best he could do. Beside him, Kilem had a fascinated expression, but had returned to saying nothing – he wasn’t one to speak when it wasn’t necessary. That, and his mother had told him not to speak to strangers  _ so often  _ that it was about the only thing about her that he could recall of her as a person.

“Are there other children here, or is this all of you?” Glain asked.

“We were more before, but some were adopted,” Surak answered. “I don’t want to be adopted by a Bajoran. Those outside, they are different. They will make us into slaves because they hate us.” That was a bold accusation and Ziyem seemed to disapprove.

“That’s not true. Vigal came back to visit last year and he said he was very happy with his new parents.”

“He was only  _ seven _ ,” Surak shook his head. “He was five when he was adopted. We’re different because we’re too old. Old enough to work.”

“I’m nine,” Toral peeped. “Is it too old?” Surak wanted to say yes, but Leyal was quicker.

“No, I don’t think so. And maybe we still have a parent or someone somewhere… Maybe they’ll find us someday.”

“Have you been blood-tested to find genetic matches in Cardassian files?” Glain asked.

“I don’t think so,” the green-eyed girl answered. “How does it work?”

“It’s very simple,” Timun answered as the doctor he was. “It just takes a DNA sample, such as blood, which can be taken with a hypospray, or saliva. It doesn’t hurt at all. Then the sample is analyzed to identify your DNA and compare it to the records of all Cardassians and find possible matches who could be a parent, aunt, cousin…”

“It was supposed to be done some time ago,” Najar said. “But they said hyposprays were too expensive and it never happened. The problem isn’t that they don’t care, it’s rather that they  _ can’t _ care adequately.”

“Don’t speak so loud,” Terek glared at her, putting his hands on his ears like he was in pain.

“He has ridiculously sharp hearing,” Najar shrugged.

“It’s not my fault. It’s because of the explosion,” the child looked down his bowl, in which nothing was left but strings of vegetables alike to a tumble of hair that wasn’t much appetizing. Terek was pretty good at cooking, but he’d been a bit annoying during that day, and denied helping with his favorite chore. As a result, the others had opted to cook his least favorite soup just to spite him, which was a very Cardassian behavior that the Bajoran overseers failed to understand: to them, it was important to eat all things that could be eaten. To Terek, the bullying was starting to add up,  “I don’t like it here…” he whimpered.

“Don’t cry again…” Midrin sighed. “He cries all the time.”

“That’s not true!” Terek denied vividly.

“You get upset and it’s not very dignified,” Najar said softly, as if she was trying to appease the situation with kind advice. Glain could very much see however that her goal was to tease – women had very subtle ways to argue but the archivist was very good at picking them up. Terek tried to contain himself but couldn’t help glaring at Najar with murderous intents. Timun, who wasn’t seeing nor understanding any of the underground strife, tried to pat the angry child’s back gently.

“It must be difficult…” he mumbled with compassion. Terek turned to him with pleading eyes and clung to his coat with a distressed hand, making the whole situation even more awkward. “ _ Help _ ,” Timun looked at Melekor and Glain.

Although Melekor didn’t feel sorry for Timun, he could sympathize with the poor child and offered him to go have a little stroll outside, which Terek accepted. Kilem shadowed them, not really caring to ask whether he was invited or not. Terek was his friend.

 

Darkness shrouded the landscape, and a silence just as black hung in the air. The breeze had stopped, as had the carriages that would otherwise pass by on the road. Only ruffling of insects, so light that Melekor couldn’t hear them, were present, and those were deep inside the leafy bushes that dotted the path next to the house – the one that led into the small forest. While Terek had taken his hand instantly, Kilem walked slightly behind the two of them, hands folded in the small of his back. He listened, he followed, and in a sense, made sure that they wouldn’t get lost; he had an excellent memory for localization.

“Why don’t you like it here? What is it that is making you so much sadder than the others?” Melekor asked Terek rather softly, once he was convinced they must be out of earshot from the house.

“I’m different,” the child answered after a moment of hesitation. “I hear everything, all the noises, it’s… it’s very upsetting sometimes, because everything is so loud and I can’t turn down the volume. Sometimes I can barely sleep at night, and then I’m tired… They make fun of my scar too when they’re upset at me, when I get angry at them,” he looked down, slouching forth as he did before during the meal, and holding his shoulders oddly angled in front of him.

“I have no doubts Doctor Lykes will be able to help you with those things, now that he’s here – Federation doctors are sworn to help when it’s needed,” Melekor said as they reached a slight turn at the path; there, it sided along a creek, and next to the creek was a moonshard-shaped stone bench, on which Melekor sat, motioning for Terek to sit next to him – Kilem had already claimed the adult’s right side, and sat there silently, watching the night around them, appreciating the scents, and the feelings from the other two.

“Do you get upset at them often?” the adult inquired further.

“I’m sick of being in this place; I don’t belong here!” Terek hissed in bitter annoyance. “The caretakers, they don’t tell us anything about Cardassia. They say they don’t know what it’s like for real so they prefer not to invent stories that might not be true. They know nothing!” he winced and looked at Melekor. “Ilina was my friend, but last year she became sick and they didn’t know what to do and no treatment was working so…” he didn’t finish the sentence. “It should have been me. She was smart and quick. I’m just… broken and useless, and ugly. I’m too weird. I wish I didn’t have to be alive because nobody needs me,” he told honestly. “I have no purpose…” Melekor bit back on his emotions, and instead laid an arm around Terek’s shoulder, holding him closer and rubbing his arm to comfort him.

“Terek is becoming a woman,” Kilem explained helpfully, “and  _ I _ am becoming a man,” he made sure to add, as if it were slightly better a development, “even though I don’t have a penis,” he added smugly. Before Melekor could react, Terek let out a squeal of anger and tried to grab Kilem with angry hands.

“I didn’t want anyone to know that, you idiot!” upset tears flocked to his eyes as Melekor held him back, ending up with the teen sitting on his lap.

“The way you walk makes it obvious that you’re trying to hide what’s growing on your chest,” Kilem replied factually, his voice sounding a little hoarse from the little exercise it had for the past years. “ _ I _ find you cute,” he still admitted, his small neckscales flushing a little. Melekor sighed and patted Terek’s back.

“It’s fine to be like this,” he assured, “Many Cardassians are intersexed, including me. It’s completely normal.” Terek tried to breath and calm down, holding arms close to his chest, as to hide the soft buds protruding there.

“I… I thought it was because of the pollution,” he gulped on his feelings a moment. “The Bajorans think it’s not normal – I’ve read that in the computer. They don’t have records that normal adults would be like that. But maybe they don’t know what’s normal,” he admitted and shook his head, then glared at Kilem again. “And  _ you _ , don’t say I’m cute! I’m not! I know I’m ugly!”

“Shh,” Melekor tried to calm him. “Intersexism is supposed to be a racial secret. It’s easier to appear a united people when there are only two sexes, two gender roles. When I go to Cardassia, my female organs will have me sorted as female, and I intend to take a female role,” he couldn’t help but to nuzzle Terek’s hair, “I feel ugly too, very often. I know telling you otherwise won’t help, but... what about your looks is it that bothers you? Do you think it’s anything Doctor Lykes could fix?”

“Terek doesn’t need fixing,” Kilem opposed rather strongly, “I like him as he is – or her, I don’t care which he is.”

“That  _ is _ up to Terek, you know,” Melekor gave him a meaningful look.

“I… I don’t know,” the sad child grunted in an attempt to answer Melekor’s question. He’d thought about it sometimes but, “I’ve always been a boy since I’ve been here, and now I no longer know what I am,” he admitted. “I don’t want to become different than I am now… People are going to mock at me even more,” he sighed, discreetly pressing his wrists against his chest again, to feel the small bumps there. “But what does it matter now? All I wanted was… I used to look up at the sky, you know? Sometimes I could see it,  _ Terok Nor _ , shining like a moon, and I thought I’d find a way to get there with Kilem and try to smuggle ourselves back to Cardassia. But then the Occupation ended and even the station moved away,” his voice cracked a little. “Whatever happens now. If the state of my body really is a racial secret, I can’t let the Bajorans find out about this and investigate me, can I? Now that my body is becoming like this, it’s all useless.  _ You _ ,” he sneered at Kilem, “you don’t have any weird bumps to hide, but me?” He shook his head. “It’s over. The problem isn’t my scar or those ...woman things… It’s all of me.”

Melekor just held Terek and rubbed his back, wondering if he’d felt the same, had his mother not prevented him from entering female puberty. Maybe he would have? He wasn’t sure whether he would have enjoyed having breasts or not, though he was very certain they’d be entirely impractical. Kilem, on the other side, poked at his friend’s mind a little. Sometimes he went in there when Terek was sad, to try and comfort him; there were even times when it worked. They could spend hours just sitting or laying next to each other in a restful but intimate silence, somehow communicating without words – but in this moment, Terek was angry and embarrassed.

“ _ Don’t do that now. You should speak instead, or use your body, _ ” he snapped a little and gestured in the sign language they’d invented together. It had been Terek’s first initiative when they first met and everybody thought Kilem was mute. But only they knew the signs, like a secret and a respite from the noise constantly harassing Terek’s ears. Still, now that he’d heard his friend’s voice speaking words, he was curious to hear it some more. In a way, it was a bit hurtful that Melekor would be the first person Kilem would address, and not Terek, but the teen could understand…

“ _ My throat hurts, _ ” Kilem signed back, but withdrew his mind from Terek. If Terek didn’t want to be less lonely, then  _ fine _ .

“I think you should talk with Doctor Lykes,” Melekor made himself part of the conversation again, “If you really don’t want to develop like a female, he might be able to prescribe you male hormones,” he explained. “I’ve been taking such ever since I was around your age.” Terek looked at him, eyes piercing into the night to observe the man holding him.

“Who’s gonna afford that? Bajorans can’t even afford hyposprays… And I don’t know… I don’t know if I dislike it, but I don’t want to become so different I could no longer be a man. I have parts that are male,” he said as to state his difference from Kilem. “The Bajorans don’t look between our legs because they think it’s rude, but they’ve shown us drawings representing a boy and a girl to ask which we were. I didn’t know I had both because the male bit was more ...noticeable,  _ sometimes _ ,” he blushed a little. “Kilem  _ lied _ to them about what he had, because he wanted to be a boy. You always have to be the smartest in the end,” Terek shot at him like a reproach. They’d grown close, even closer after Ilina died, and now that their bodies were growing, Terek didn’t want it to be the reason they’d grow apart.

“It wasn’t a lie,” denied Kilem, “I  _ am _ a boy. It’s not my fault I had to bend the truth in order to be honest. My parents raised me as a boy, gave me a boy’s name, and also, I’m not the one growing breasts. I am, however, growing thicker scales than you,” he tapped the side of his neck, smiling a bit, “Girls don’t get to have scales this thick, because they are supposed to stay safe and out of conflict, whereas males have to prepare for the day when they must defend their family. That’s what my mother told me,” he nodded to himself and leaned forwards on the bench, “But don’t worry Terek, I’ll protect you if you turn into a girl,” it was a generous offer, and very kind, or at least he thought so himself. Terek wanted to  _ slap _ Kilem. He’d wanted him to talk a moment before, but now regretted it.

“And what if he’s both?” Melekor asked with a raised eyeridge. Kilem pursed his lips.

“Then I’ll still protect him. He’s my friend,” he nodded to himself, then slid off of the edge of the bench, turning around to give the other two a rather nondescript glance, before he jolted off into the vegetation, rustling the bushes a bit.

“Don’t worry, he does that sometimes,” Terek almost welcomed Kilem’s disappearance. He straightened up as he heard footsteps from a distance – those weren’t Kilem’s. “Someone is coming,” he sat back aside Melekor and tried to compose himself, turning to see who it was. “It must be one from your group,” he figured as the way the person walked was quite distinctive from the Bajorans, being a lot more aerial and delicate. It took half a minute before Glain actually appeared.

“There you are!” he said. “I was getting a little worried,” he folded his arms in his back and approached closer. “Where’s the little one?” he noticed someone was missing.

“He’s somewhere,” Melekor smiled pleasantly and gesticulated to the bushes, then patted the bench to his right, to invite his brother to sit and share his personal insight. It was about fine until Terek had the idea to ask him if he too was intersexed.

“And why would you think this?” Glain did his utmost best not to feel insulted, because Terek was only a child.

“Looks can be deceiving,” the teen answered, trying to somersault out of the awkward slope he was on. “I cannot know, so I must ask.”

“I’ll give you that. But no, I’m fully male, fully functional and anatomically-” He interrupted himself as Kilem reappeared at last, with a kitten for his friend to pet. Terek’s feelings got conflicted into a different sort of anger, maybe directed at himself more than toward the other. He snuck his forehead against him, spoon against spoon.

“Don’t think it’s over, I’m not done with you,” he muttered and drew back to glare at him, though he blushed more than he frowned. Holding the kitten safe in one hand, he freed the other and, in one quick movement, pinched Kilem’s neckscales for a few seconds, just enough to make him squeal a little. Melekor didn’t really approve of that barbaric behavior. Glain just smiled, slightly amused, though he felt a little ache in his own scale at the memory of a similar experience – back to younger years, it stood ground that Iltarel was only being harsh with him, but as they grew up, Glain had to wonder how oblivious his friend could keep about the intimacy of those punishing contacts.

“Anyway,” the archivist restarted the conversation, “I’d like to ask you questions too, because it’s only fair. What sort of education do you receive here?”

“Bajoran education,” Terek grunted, “so we can  _ integrate _ into society. They try to teach us about the Prophets, they say it’s necessary if we want to be adopted, but I don’t want to be adopted by  _ Bajorans _ . They killed my parents and everybody I knew. They took all my memories away – I remember nothing before the explosion. I won’t let them have what’s left of me.”

“Your parents  _ did _ invade their world -” Melekor tried to point out, but was nearly instantly cut short by Kilem.

“Mine didn’t. They were born here,” he simply stated.

“How... long did the Occupation last?” Melekor thought to ask, because he didn’t remember.

“Fourty years,” Kilem answered instantly, “They taught us that in school. Over fifteen million Bajorans were killed by the Cardassians,” he nuzzled the cat, smiled at the fur and sighed sweetly. “They never say how many Cardassians they killed, though,” he observed, “it nearly sounds like they drove them off without killing anyone, when  _ they _ tell the story. Therefore, I’m critical – never trust the word of the one who wins the debate, that’s what my mother used to say.”

“What an un-Cardassian thing to say!” Glain flared a bit, then softened. “But a Cardassian thing to think…” he reckoned with more malice, which Terek especially seemed to appreciate.

“I think I must have been born here too, because we had a house,” the youth leaned against Kilem, taking advantage of being the tallest to rest his head against his. “Almost nothing but rubbles remained after the explosion. I don’t remember a lot. I was told I was found after two days, in a hole, with someone else who was dead. They never told me who it was, only that I wasn’t letting go of him… But it might be all a lie.” He sighed and turned to the adults. “There’s nothing for us here. We’re not being taught anything to become independent. They forbid us to talk and write in Kardasi, they even say we are Bajorans now, but they won’t let us play with Bajoran kids when some come,” he squinted. “When Vigal visited us, he had two Bajoran siblings. We tried to play tag, but as soon as we started running after the Bajorans, all the adults started screaming at us, saying we couldn’t do that. It’s like with the hyposprays, you see? It’s not that they don’t want, it’s rather that they can’t. They would  _ like _ to accept us like their Prophets tell them to, but they don’t have it inside to actually do it. We’ll always be Cardassians, and they are right to fear us,” Terek held Kilem’s hand.

“You could have chosen not to speak at all, like I,” Kilem chimed fuzzily at his friend, squeezing his kitten-free hand and yawning a bit.

“It’s late,” Melekor had to interrupt the way his thoughts were going, “we should go get tucked into bed, we’ll talk again tomorrow.” He looked at Glain for a moment, then back at the children. They’d have to leave the following day, stay on schedule, keep on track. The idea of leaving them behind just like that was torture.

“Yes. We should go back inside before the caretakers too start worrying,” Glain got up and took Terek’s hand in his to lead the way. Such a small hand, it was.

“You’re sure you don’t want any children?” the child asked more as a jest. “I’m getting old, but Kilem… if there’s only one of us who deserves to survive, it’s him,” he said but tightened his hand over his friend’s.

“And you, Terek, what are you skilled for?” Glain asked.

“Not much,” he sighed, then reconsidered the words and the interest that laid in them. “I’m good in languages, I write a lot of stories – but you mustn’t tell the caretakers because they’re in Kardasi – and I think I’m quite good with the computer, considering we’re not really supposed to use it. Najal, Leyal and I have been teaching ourselves, but I think Kilem can do better than us all. Kilem is my only purpose, and he cannot stay here.” Those were strong words, but very Cardassian too, Glain reckoned.

“I’m not going anywhere without Terek,” warned Kilem, in case the words spoken were to give the others any ideas to the contrary. He held his friend’s hand tighter and walked a bit closer to him, glaring at Glain to further dispel such fantasies, “If you adopt me without him, I will kill you in your sleep so I can come back here.” He declared it without much emotion; it clearly was just a fact, not a threat. Glain smiled.

“This is a reassuring sentiment, young man.” The words were just as honest as Kilem’s. Melekor too had to admire the loyalty between the two children, and it made him wonder if this was how Cardassian siblings felt for each other. After all, the two of them were living under the same roof, eating at the same table, playing the same games, most likely... they were close. Like he wished he was with Glain.

“The Bajorans complained of the poor condition of the computer,” the archivist said almost innocently, “I proposed to repair the system a little, just to increase the speed of data processing.”

“Suit yourself,  _ I _ will be sleeping,” Melekor opted for the more reasonable course of action.

 

Thus did Glain spend most of the night working on the computer. Hardware repair wasn’t his favored area, but he knew his basics well enough to work alone, although he couldn’t help but wish Iltarel were there too – he was the hardware expert after all. It went smoothly however, until Mera – the woman who’d welcomed them – interrupted him at some point as she went on her watch routine and found him halfway inside the computer.

“What are you doing in there!?” she let out the interrogation. Just as surprised as her, Glain startled and hit his head.

“I’m working, thank you!” he glared at her.

“Well, that’s the first time I’m thanked by a Cardassian,” she blinked. “Is it going well?”

“I don’t need help and I don’t exactly need to talk either, it throws me out of my flow,” he sighed and rearranged his hair a bit – this made her laugh. He ticked, though. “Am I really the first Cardassian to thank you?” he asked. “Those kids, they don’t?”

“Oh, but they are Bajoran now. Most of them were  _ born _ on Bajor as well,” Mera smiled.

“The place we’re born in has little to do with what we are,” he frowned. “Can’t you accept them as Cardassians? Do you have to make them into Bajorans to bring yourself to possibly like them? They’re different. We’re not the same people and we will  _ never _ be. Our needs are not the same, our biology is not the same, our  _ psychology _ is not the same… Everything about us is alike to our planets! Light-years apart! It’s like this computer,” he tapped it gently. “A fine, good computer. A bit outdated, but sturdy and of durable design and military efficiency. But the software? What were you even thinking when you tried to implement it? The person who did this had less understanding of programmation than any child on my homeland!” he laughed. “I don’t know if I’m amused or horrified,” he shook his head.

“Looks like you’re having the time of your life, I’d say,” she raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe, and if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather keep on enjoying myself and this fine computer alone,” he insisted. At last, she left. But then a bit later it was Dziana who came ambling, asking if she could help in any way.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Glain worried.

“I don’t need as much sleep as you do. Adults of my species can spend up to two weeks without sleep before starting to really suffer from sleep-deprivation,” she told. “I’ve already slept several hours in the transport today. I can hand you tools however.” Giving it a thought, Glain accepted, and within an hour, he got the computer running to full capacity and could delve into the operating system some more, working to explore the files and programs, and making copies of any interesting or seemingly interesting data he could find.

##  * * *

The orphanage didn’t have much care for privacy, Melekor experienced as their little group got to share a cramped room with shaky bunkbeds – the children seemed to sleep in another similar room, with no real care to divide girls from boys. Sleeping in the same room as Timun was most unwelcome, especially since Melekor  _ knew _ Timun’s need for sleep wasn’t exactly the same as his own. Nevertheless, he put claim on the room by getting naked first, and then slipping into the right side top bed, even though the fear of falling would later through the night prove to be one of the reasons why Melekor didn’t sleep very well.

The other reason, was that he kept on looking at Lykes. Or thinking about Terek and Kilem. Of how he recognized himself in Terek, and how cruel it was that there was nothing he could tell him to soothe him. How he wished that... that he could help them. All the children.


	29. Day 26 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glain and Melekor's own little mission turns out to require a good deal of improvisation.

##  Day 26

 

Once sleep finally caught him in its claws, it really did nail him to the bed however; Melekor could’ve slept the entire day, if he’d been left to it. Instead, he was called back from his dreamless sleep by someone’s insistent talking and shaking of his arm. Crankily, he simply turned around and pulled his blanket with him, shuddering a bit when he accidentally exposed his back and neck to the cold air. Timun groaned as he informed him that everybody had had breakfast already and that it was probably getting to be time for another shot of phelenaxinide – not that Melekor cared to listen nor understand anything until “And Terek and Kilem have been asking for you.” That, at last, shook the Cardassian in a more waken state. He let the Vulcan leave and got ready to face the outside world some more, clothes on, hair still untidy. Terek and Kilem were waiting for him right outside the room. They were a bit blurry, because he was still tired.

“Good morning,” he croaked. Kilem, unsurprisingly said nothing, but he did shake his head with an eyeroll. By his side, Terek held himself straight up, arms crossed in his back and chest puffed up, yet seemingly flat – Timun had bound him carefully and freed more confidence as a result. The teen shortly returned the greetings and turned on his heels, walking in a military manner to lead the way to the bathroom while telling of the examinations Lykes performed. The tone was as formal as the way the teen held himself – a stark contrast from the previous day.

“Is something disturbing you, Mister Kel?” he picked up on Melekor’s apparent discomfort, “Anything I can help with? You need but to state it and I shall be most pleased to do all that is in my power to arrange for better and more pleasant circumstances until your ...departure.”

“Terek...” Melekor heaved a sigh, “Just call me Melekor. I’m not disturbed.” Kilem pointed a sharp two fingers in his side, however, which caused him to make a surprised sound, looking at the child, who was eyeing him over with disbelief. “I feel bad about leaving,” he forced himself to admit, “Not that I regret coming at all.”

“You could still take us with you,” Terek sniped again, still cunning. “A huge commitment, I know, especially in regards to children whom you barely know, and who barely know you as well,” he smiled maliciously and stopped in front of a door like a miniature Cardassian guard clad in a green Bajoran tunique.

“I  _ wish _ I could take you with me,” Melekor had to compose himself, and thought of spiders to focus his ambling feelings at something, “but I would have nothing to offer you. Although,” he set his imagination to work, “I suppose, if you were to write a letter each, and if I could have photos of you, I could try my best to find someone in a better position than myself, convince them it might be a good choice. That is the extent of what I can do.” Terek nodded.

“At least, writing’s the thing I’m likely best at,” he tried to sound optimistic. “The doctor took blood samples from all of us,” Terek added, “and your friend says that once he has the DNA, he  _ could _ transmit the information to the Bureau of Identification to find if any of us has relatives that are still alive, but he also said it was risky because the existence of some of us may not be so appreciated if we are born of… infidelities,” he looked away. Then opened the bathroom’s door. “Either way, he said he’d like you to come take a look at the computer when you are done and fed. Clean towels are here,” the child pointed, going onto where soap was found, along with various sponges and brushes. There was no running water, but a large bucket was kept warm on a brasero, and basins could be used to wet and rinse one’s body.

“Thank you,” Melekor’s voice was a bit dumbfounded by the primitive setup. The only comforting detail was that at least there wasn’t a toilet inside the shower, like the one Savras had. Still, even though it was rudimentary, it offered for a rather pleasant experience. Forced to manually care for each centimeter and fold in his skin, Melekor figured it must give the children a different kind of appreciation for themselves; there was no ignoring the shapes of scales, no forgetting the shape of the adorning tear drop at the forehead. Altogether, it was different from the sonic showers and hot water showers he’d had growing up – as a child, there had been times when he’d blissfully forgotten about his own looks, and felt almost normal. It was something he didn’t really want happening to these children, however. The Bajorans probably denied their Cardassianhood more than enough already.

Just a bit later, he went to the computer room, where he found his brother in a surprisingly energetic state despite the little sleep he had in the night.

“Ah, Melekor!” Glain turned over him from his seat, slicking his hair by reflex, “I thought you’d enjoy taking a look at this beauty! And maybe tell me what you think of certain things – come over here,” he gestured and focused back on the screen, bringing up various files on comparative windows. “Can you imagine this very function of list comparison wasn’t even re-enabled?” he laughed. “Well, too bad. I suppose that if they’ve done without it for all this time, they can continue without. I created a personal session: all you can see here, the Bajorans don’t have access to. Now, look,” he pointed at the screen. On the left tab was the file of a child, with all the informations gathered about the parents and the circumstances in which the child was presumed to have been orphaned. The right tab however offered a different version of the same story, one in which the parents weren’t flagged as officers regularly in charge of bringing shuttlefuls of young,  _ healthy _ Bajoran women to whichever place. A story in which the parents didn’t die at the hands of the Resistance either.

“Amusing,” Glain commented flatly, “Files were edited for all children whose parents could be suspected to have done questionable things to Bajoran people, while those whose parents were unknown or in civilian occupations, the records were practically unaltered, and there was no attempt to delete the files.”

“To spare them the guilt of what their parents did. It makes sense, considering they are turning the children into Bajoran citizens,” Melekor acknowledged as he stood next to his brother, leaning forwards and frowning, “That is some incredible data bloating… We have to make sure they won’t know you unearthed all of this, or they’d probably find a way to permanently rinse the system, and then the children will never know-”

“Find me,” came a voice in their backs and the child forced his way in between Melekor and Enkem, “if Kilem doesn’t work, try Boran.” Glain smiled and set a hand on the child’s shoulder.

“I already found you, come,” he invited him to sit on his lap to see the screen better. “You’re one of the good ones, everything there is unaltered,” he showed the relevant list of files. It wasn’t entirely a lie – the Bajorans hadn’t altered the files, no. But someone else had. The file was too pure and pristine to be real. “You didn’t tell anything to the Bajorans, but to me, you will. What is your story, you lost little gem?”

“If I tell you, will you adopt myself and Terek?” Kilem bartered in all seriosity, turning in Glain’s lap to look into his eyes, into his mind, trying to soak him in feelings of softness and  _ yes I will _ -ness. Temptation crept upon the archivist, but he knew far too well that it could get complicated – and what would his father say? He wanted grandchildren, yes, but would he accept this? And it was a huge commitment…

“Kilem, have you thought that if I were to adopt you both, you would be  _ siblings _ ?” he asked. “And siblings are limited in the way they are allowed to love each other…” he hinted. “I know you just want to get out of here, but  _ before _ I accept to play such a major role in helping you with this, I need to know exactly what we’re up against.  _ You _ talk first.  _ Then _ I’ll figure out the better option to get you back home.” Kilem resigned.

“My mother grew up on Bajor, she lived here because this  _ was  _ Cardassia to her. She was a doctor, specialized in genetic engineering. She used to co-work with other doctors. Sometimes she went to Cardassian homeworlds to conferences there,” he wiggled his toes and took a deep breath, “Sometimes doctors came home to us and talked about doctor things – very boring, because I didn’t have the basic knowledge to find it interesting,” he shrugged. “When I was four, she used to take me with her to work – many doctors. They scanned me for fun, sometimes I had to be unconscious, but I always woke up after,” he nodded sagely, then continued, “Father was less prestigious. A shoemaker,” he shook his head a little, “he wanted me to become a shoemaker too, but my mother won that argument. I was supposed to be a doctor,” he pouted. “He still took me to his shop, where we played memory games and had rehearsals of things and people and places we’d passed on the way. He never actually taught me anything about shoes,” he sighed and leaned forward a little. “And then they died. I guess. It’s almost three years ago.  _ Now  _ will you adopt me?” he looked at Glain with more determination.

Melekor on the other hand, couldn’t help but to notice the detachment going on – Kilem told his story, but he didn’t let any emotions surface, for the simple reason that there  _ were _ none. Disassociation, he figured – he wondered if the boy had  _ seen _ his parents get killed.

“I think I will need to talk with Lykes,” Glain decided. He was a Cardassian and a fearless one when it came to dealing with matters most would simply turn their back to. “I think there might be medical emergencies going on for those children, the sort of emergencies that cannot be treated here. I think those children should be taken to DS9 to receive proper care. Their  _ lives _ are at stake,” he removed a rod from the computer and put it back among many other rods, in an empty sleeve-like pouch of the harness he wore, designed for this purpose – a birthday gift from Iltarel. “Obviously, pollution has factored in their normal development, and now that puberty has come, their bodies are starting to malfunction. It is only a miracle they survived for so long,” he smiled at Kilem. “What do you think? Are you healthy?”

“Healthy enough that I don’t have a penis,” Kilem caught on to the play, smiling a little, “even though I’m male, and  _ should _ have one – though, it’s not so bad without. How sick am I?” he continued to ask, a bit more cautiously, as if there was a possibility he was  _ actually _ sick. Glain just snickered and Melekor looked between them, wondering what exactly was going on. He didn’t ask however.

“I’ll go get Lykes for you,” he mumbled instead as an excuse to leave the room for a while.

He found Timun with his child, Terek, Leyal and Zirem huddled up in the kitchen, playing some kind of Bajoran board game – all of them seemed extremely focused; they all had a piece each, and when they rolled the die, they had to advance and, occasionally, turn over a card, which could be good or bad (Timun seemed to have the least luck of them all, because his piece had just been sent to ‘prison’, with a penalty of being skipped for the two following rounds).

“Doctor Lykes,” Melekor called softly after he’d cleared his throat, “you’re needed in the computer room.”

“Oh, on my way then!” the half-Vulcan got up at once.

“You leave in game’s middle?” Leyal complained, speaking in English.

“It because you’re to the detention zone and missed blessing of the Prophets and two strip latinum ...for third time,  _ izen’eet _ ?” Zirem snickered in the same language – the one all players could understand.

“Admittedly, this Ferengi spawn of a game reuses mechanics of real life, albeit in a way that is highly illogical and almost offensive. And maybe there’s a medical emergency for me to deal with,” he got away. Behind him, Terek followed, causing Leyal to frown again.

“You leaving too?”

“Yes. Share my inheritance fairly,” Terek replied.

Back in the computer room, Glain threw offensive medical blabbering at Timun, and the doctor easily figured that the Cardassian’s concerns weren’t medical ones. “If you could get them to send a runabout and get us all beamed away, that would be the tears of the confession,” Glain finished.

“A Cardassian idiom, I take it?” Lykes crossed his arms. “And then? What happens to the children  _ after? _ ”

“They go home.”

“Home where? Here at the orphanage, or…” he observed the archivist with care.

“Home where they belong, with their people. And the least questions you ask, the safer it is for you. I would suggest you contact your Starfleet homologue as soon as we have reviewed the symptoms those children are suffering from.” Timun looked at the kids, and their expressions left no doubt as to what they hoped from him now.

“You understand that I am a doctor, and as such, my authority is ruled by a specific set of guidelines to avoid any abuse,” he said sternly, walking over to the computer. “But, I suppose that it  _ is _ true that their condition is nothing that can be properly observed here, and likely to become problematic.” He took an inspiration. “Let’s do this, then.” He still paid a sententious glare to Glain, but the young Cardassian just kept on smiling cunningly. “You are  _ devious _ ,” Timun whispered to him

“Why, thank you,” the Cardassian grinned. “I leave you in charge. Melekor and I still have a mission to finish,” he walked out with the aforementioned.

##  * * *

It didn’t take long for the two brothers to leave the house, and get into a carriage, although Timun did take the time to give them each one of his spare medical combadges, to stay in touch – the devices were Trillian in design, teal triangles with the silver caduceus symbol of the Federal Order of Doctors. In the privacy of the small space inside their transport, Melekor sighed in relief, leaning back in his seat and rubbing the back of his head against the pillow there. The landscape was wandering by at a rather significant speed (those birds could  _ run _ ), and the air conditioning system hummed along with the breeze outside.

“What’s your plan, Glain?” he finally asked his brother, “Kilem and Terek, are you going to adopt them?”

“I don’t know, especially about Kilem; we may have to hand him over, and that’s not something I feel too comfortable with either. Anything could happen.”

“Because of his abilities?” Melekor guessed, leaning forwards in his seat a little, “It’s not so common, is it? And he’s really rather strong, too. I have to wonder if those doctors he was meeting, if they weren’t enhancing him in this regard. Not even...” he’d almost mentioned Garak, but then censored himself out of that one, and just shrugged as if he’d forgotten the rest of his sentence.

“How would you  _ describe  _ those abilities?” Glain inquired as if he genuinely cared about the wording of the definition more than its meaning.

“Empathic?” Melekor suggested. “I suppose that’s what my mother went to study on Cardassia… Your people don’t seem so aware about their own abilities however. It must be rare.”

“Indeed,” the archivist nodded. He could easily imagine why the Obsidian Order would be interested in engineering this however. Was it what was planned for Kilem? But then, the Order  _ would _ have tracked him and taken him back. A piece of the puzzle was missing and he couldn’t fathom what it might be, so he had to give up for the time being. “Maybe you should take him,” he suggested quite suddenly.

“You want me to adopt him?” Melekor echoed in disbelief, “When we first went here, it was supposed to be  _ just _ a visit, and now you want to...” he sighed and leaned forward a bit more, then put his elbow on his knees and his head in his hands, “You want me to hone his skills, is that it? I don’t know if I could do that to him, do what my mother did to me. You know what he said, he wants to be a doctor.”

“Then maybe Lykes should take him, or even that Starfleet doctor,” Glain grunted and moved to lay across the seat. “Anyway, I need to sleep a bit before we get there. This night was a nice warming up, but a little nap would do me good if you don’t mind.”

Melekor found peace in watching his brother sleep, and thought about what he had said meanwhile. It seemed cruel to separate the children, but he could understand if Glain didn’t want to adopt both of them. He was still very much a child himself, and whenever Melekor looked at him, he wanted to hold him and care for him, protectively.

It took them some three quarter hours to arrive at their destination, and when they did, the weather had turned from sweet and sunny, to moody, dark, and cloudy with a nasty, roaring wind that threw drops like spittle onto anyone who had the nerve to be outdoors. They didn’t need to open the door; it was torn open by the punishing wind. Huddled together, Melekor put his bag above his head to protect himself from the worst of the rain, and ran toward the little roofing that shot out over the entrance of the building ahead – Glain ran after him, battling with the terrible dilemma of having to choose between protecting his head in a similar fashion (and risk wetting all the PADDs inside) and not to do it (and end up with his hair wet and curling untidily). Eventually, he chose the latter, because his hair was going to be wet and messed by the wind  _ anyway _ .

The siblings had to wait a moment before the door was opened by some smug Bajoran whose skin was dark like the storm. His amber eyes were sharp and quite amused at the sight of those roughed-by-the-elements visitors.

“Now that’s a surprise,” he laughed, unafraid. “Do come in,” he gave the way but studied them like a predator. “I suppose you’re here to help us calibrate the soil reclamators?” he grinned and led them further inside the hall of the building. There was more light there, and he gave the Cardassians a more thorough look. Glain looked at him just as much, thinking to himself that he’d rarely ever seen black Bajorans before, and that the skintone somehow made the man look a lot more… respectable or whatever it was. Melekor was already looking around the room more than he was the person – it was an impressive space, definitely larger on the inside.

“The soil what?” Glain tried to repeat, blinking.

“The soil reclamators,” the Bajoran repeated, oddly pointing at his clothes – those of a scientific officer; not that the Cardassians knew enough about Bajoran uniforms to deduce that. “I am Doctor Juran Leeto,” he added, but it obviously didn’t make anything clearer, so he chuckled and offered his hand for a palm kiss, “Anyway, what are your names, and what are you here for then? You’re doctors, right?” he advised the combadges while Glain indulged him in the greeting gesture, too taken aback by the man’s  _ welcoming _ attitude to protest against the  _ very inappropriate _ , intimate familiarity. Juran probably picked his confusion as he spoke again, “I’m sorry you had to be welcomed so roughly by that weather, and I suppose it’s not so usual for Cardassians to be greeted like this by a Bajoran… But I’ve been working with your people for all my life, and I must admit that, at least, back then, the transports were on time. Now that you’re gone, getting the least coil spanner is an ordeal,” he shook his head. “Those combadges don’t look very Cardassian, though…” he pointed suspiciously.

“Oh, no, they’re, ah, Trillian,” Glain explained. Juran nodded.

“So, what is your name, and what is your quest?”

“I’m brother and this is my Glain,” Melekor gesticulated towards Glain, then caught himself making the error, shaking his head a bit, “Sorry, I’m Melekor, and this is Glain,” he gesticulated towards Glain again, “We’re here to...” he paused; if this Juran Leeto had such a positive idea of Cardassians, he might have been a collaborator, which meant he might not  _ want _ to undermine Reyal, “We’re tourists,” he added finally, blushing at his own idiotic way of talking, “sort of.” Glain couldn’t help but look at his brother in disbelief.  _ Tourists!? _

“I suppose we can call that tourism?” he squinted at him, quite shocked and maybe a bit offended too, then looked at Juran. “We make a study on Cardassian technology and how it is being used by Bajorans, to evaluate how much of a technological improvement the Occupation has brought to your people,” he made up on spot, weaving the lie like deceit was his native language. “So far, we’ve found a lot of half-destroyed systems and we’ve been doing a lot of repairs. I suppose it’s a bit of time travel too sometimes, but if you’ve got a nice body-” he suddenly started to cough, turning away from the Bajoran and protecting his mouth with his fist while his cheeks and neckscales turned dark. “Sorry, I might be getting a cold with this weather,” he apologized, still a bit flushed.

“I suppose you were about to propose to repair our systems too?” Juran nodded, quite amused by what he saw. “I’m so very sorry to bring you the news that our computers are functioning  _ perfectly _ ,” he smiled almost sadistically.

“They  _ are!? _ ” Glain didn’t hide his surprise. “Oh, well, I suppose you are scientists after all, and you probably learned everything you needed to know during the Occupation… Still,  _ this _ would be extremely interesting for our study, and really, only Cardassians such as us are really fit to tell if the system is working as perfectly as you say.”

“And how can I be certain you aren’t here to steal or wipe data?” the man grinned. “Do you have a mandate from Central Command for this ...study? Or are you here for some data mining, hm?” Glain looked at Melekor, as to ask what to tell next. His brother looked back at him for a second, likely not understanding. He felt things – odd, tingly things. Glain’s stress was bothering him, but the Bajoran… the Bajoran, he couldn’t really feel much at all. His presence was there, but more like a blurry photograph. He couldn’t understand why it bothered him, until he realized that he’d forgotten to take his medication. Then, he froze in place and frantically started opening his bag, to rustle around in there.

“Oh, we… We don’t-” he tried to answer Juran as he tried to find his hypospray- “have a mandate from Central Command – what the-” he fished up a stuffed animal – some kind of rodent – and stared at it, then just handed it over to Glain so he could continue looking in his bag- “because they don’t really care for these things – Glain, I can’t find my hypospray, this is bad.” He was starting to panic a bit, “The stuff in it could  _ kill _ someone.” Glain looked at the plushie, then at Melekor.

“If you’ll excuse me a second,” he told the Bajoran and turned away, hitting the combadge the Vulcan-Trill had given him. “Glain to Lykes,” he spoke, hoping the device worked.

“ _ Lykes, here. What’s up, any trouble on your side? _ ” the Vulcan’s voice could be heard.

“One of the kids at the orphanage seems to have replaced Melekor’s hypospray by a stuffed animal. Can you get the hypospray before one of them tries to use it and accidentally kills someone with whatever’s in it?”

“ _ The phelanaxanide!? _ ” Timun yelped in horror. “ _ And let me guess, he forgot to take his treatment  _ **_again_ ** _!? For the Guardians’ sake, tell him I’m going to spank his sorry ass if he gets a seizure before Julian arrives! _ ”

Melekor had gone from slightly blushed to violently blushed – he was  _ so angry _ that he was glad Timun wasn’t there, because if he’d been, oh...! He would’ve... he fisted and un-fisted his hands, trying to shrink into himself to never appear again.

“Uhm, yes, I think everybody in the room heard, that, thank you. Glain off,” the archivist terminated the call and faced the other two. “Well, I guess we haven’t much time then.” He looked at Juran and decided, on a gut feeling, to go for the truth. “We’re here for data mining too. There are certain archives that are missing and we need them. Now, do you need a bribe for this? Would there happen to be any Cardassian you had an issue with? I won’t believe that you could get along with all of them.” Juran observed them and smiled, hitting the back of his right fingers with  his left palm in a single clap of applause.

“I  _ knew _ you had come to help with those soil reclamators.”

“I guess I’ll have to do that,” Melekor said unhappily. Great. Mending farming equipment. Exactly what he wanted to do with his life, “I’m a repair technician and a quick learner, just show me what you want done and I’ll help you.” He glared at Glain, as if it was Glain’s fault that Timun was an awfully indiscreet asshole.

“Very good,” Juran nodded. “Come, the both of you. I will introduce you to the engineering team. She will probably be a little suspicious, but she’s not unused to Cardassian presence. Just do  _ not _ try anything that could be remotely close to seeking an argument or flirting, which, I take, is practically the same thing in your species,” he warned.

“I’m not into women, so that’s fine,” Melekor muttered, still inwardly fuming about Timun’s nerve, “Glain isn’t either,” he continued to explain, as he was in an awful mood, and taking it out on his brother, if only a little bit, made him felt better, “He’s been in love with a man for  _ years  _ now; it’d be pretty sweet, if the other half actually bothered to come see him every now and then.”

“Really?” Juran glanced at them, amused as he walked, arms folded behind his back.

“Yeah, really!?” Glain repeated, glaring at his brother, quite baffled by his offensive attitude. “I thought you wanted me to get over it… but thank you for mentioning it like this, it  _ helps _ , most certainly,” he shook his head.

“Did he use to work here?” the Bajoran asked. “Though, you seem a little young for most of them…”

“I don’t think he ever worked here, no,” Glain sighed. “I’d rather not speak about it and just focus on the work.” Juran agreed easily.

 

After passing through several doors with access code, the trio made it to the engineering room. It was Cardassian by design, and rather well-equipped. No wonder the Bajorans would keep on using this place. Only one woman was there, working on a computer. Her uniform was similar to Juran’s, albeit ocre in hue. Like him, she wore her black hair slicked back and tied behind the head. “What’s this?” she asked without even any sort of greetings, blue eyes flashing at the group. She got up at once and took a phaser from her holster, which caused Glain to tense significantly.

“Put that down, Nileka, they’re just tourists,” Juran held up his hands in front of him. “I gently persuaded them to lend a helping hand. This one here, Mister Melekor, happens to be an engineer.”

“This is  _ very _ anti-protocolar,” Nileka didn’t comply to hold down the phaser.

“You think so? I don’t,” Juran denied. “The provisional government told us to make do with what we have. And what have we here?” he gestured at the Cardassian.

“Are you serious? Where’d they come from even?” she came closer, phaser still ready to fire (and Glain started to get dizzy).

“I’d say the Prophets sent them to us,” the Bajoran doctor replied.

“Don’t be sacrilegious, that’s not how it works,” she hissed.

“Excuse me,” Glain interrupted in a shrill voice, “it’s not that I don’t like listening to arguments – which I actually find quite embarrassing – but we only have about three hours left before we have to leave. If you could-” he was interrupted by his combadge. “A moment, please,” he glared at everything and nothing in particular, and took a deep breath to clear up the haze before stepping aside to answer the call. “I’m still  _ not _ alone, Lykes,” he stated first.

“ _ Just tell Melekor he can relax, I have his hypospray and no kid got hurt. _ ”

“Good. Glain off,” the archivist grunted, not caring to expand and turning to the woman again. He was starting to recover a little bit of calm as he focused on his words rather than on the gun. “What I mean is we’ve come here to propose our help because your problem with the soils concerns us too. We were originally headed to Chak’inero’s orphanage, on a humanitarian mission to check on the Cardassian war orphans there. As it turns out, some of them are suffering from the soil pollution – we weren’t supposed to leave  _ anyone _ behind with the Withdrawal, but I suppose there were last minute changes. Now, those kids are here, and suffering. We thought we could help here so the area around the orphanage can be depolluted soon. Hopefully.”

“And that’s for the briefing,” Juran concluded.

“Tourists,” Nileka repeated, her blue gaze still hard and distrustful.

“Well, if you compare  _ this _ to the Occupation, I think we can agree it’s practically tourism,” Juran answered back. “Now get back to work, it’s an order, and if you have a problem with him, just shoot him. Then we’ll know for sure if he was a caritative worker when Central Command hears of it.”

“Ha!” Nileka laughed. “If he’s not, he’ll become one the moment he’s dead.” She shot a look at Melekor but lowered her phaser down at last. “You’d better behave around me. I won’t hesitate to shoot you if I have to.” Glain gulped.

“Please, be nice with him. He’s only half-Cardassian if that makes you hate him half less.”

“Fine, then I’ll only half-kill him if I have to.” Melekor gulped as well, though he went over to the woman to better assist her.

“I’d rather you just activate the stun setting, if you’re going to shoot me, which you might have to –” if he was going to be there for  _ three _ hours without his medication, that might just be a very possible outcome. “I’m on medication, I forgot to take it, and so, if I start behaving weirdly, I could become a risk to myself, or others around me, so ah... well, we’d better hurry, so I can do  _ some _ work before I start hallucinating spiders everywhere.”

“Charming,” the woman said and led him over to the prototype, starting to explain what her ‘team’ was attempting to do with it, and what problem she encountered with the scanner and the beamer.

 

Meanwhile, Juran took Glain to another place of the building. “So, are you enjoying Bajor?” the scientist asked.

“That’s a difficult question to answer. Mind if I skip?” the Cardassian replied. This made for a moment of silence during which they just eyed at each other a bit awkwardly. “Your skin is quite dark,” the archivist finally uttered, clearing his voice a little.

“Ah, yes, you noticed?” Juran touched his face. “My people were dedicated to food production and agriculture a lot more than to mining, and we were a rare sight on Terok Nor too – I think that’s because we were reminiscent of your ah, Soukarans? They tend to have a darker skin, don’t they? And Soukara’s a lush world, I believe? Oh, well, it’s true the province I hail from was one of the most fertile ones. When I was young, I used to think all of Bajor was lush like Kashara. I was naive!” he laughed.

“And when did you start working for the Cardassians? You look quite young for a lead scientist, if I may-”

“Oh, you may, I won’t take offense,” he grinned acidly. “I got this promotion thanks to your people. They shot all the senior scientists before leaving. How  _ kind _ of them to reward my good services.”

“So, you were a collaborator,” Glain concluded, although there wasn’t much to conclude. Juran nodded and shrugged.

“Pretty much all Bajoran scientists were. The Occupation was a good time for science, really – no religious questions getting in the way…” he gestured neglectedly. “In the end, those of us that managed not to get killed by either your people or our own ended up ‘pardoned’ because you left the planet in such shambles that we were really needed. Still, good thing for me that I was also working for the Resistance or I think pardon would have been harder, and my head would be gone… Amazing that the Cardassians never found out, though…” he murmured.

“You must have been very good,” Glain tried to flatter him although he felt quite strange and awkward.

“I guess I was. Your blood may be colder but you’re such sentimentals under those scales. It’s only a matter of seducing the right person and getting into their bed,” Juran said in such a way that it could have been honest or a joke alike.

“You really are shameless, aren’t you?” the young man glanced at him, a bit uneasy.

“I’d rather say I know what I want and I usually get it.”

They walked for a while again, until Glain stopped them both. “We’ve already gone through this corridor.”

“Have we? They all look quite the same, don’t they?”

“You’re messing with me and making me lose precious time!”

“Where would you get such an idea!? I would never-” he was cut off by the Cardassian as Glain caught him by the collar and pinned him against the wall.

“That’s enough! I want to see those computers  _ now! _ And stop looking at me with this smug expression! You have to be the shiftiest Bajoran I’ve ever met, and that really isn’t a compliment!”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take it as such,” Juran smiled. “As for yourself, you have quite some spunk in your curls, but don’t take it badly. I appreciate disorderly people…” Glain looked at him with outrage, then shock.

“Are you… Are you  _ flirting _ with me?” he started to blush.

“That’s bit of a stretch. If anything, I’d rather say you’re the one flirting.  _ I _ am only enjoying your company. For some reason, it makes me nostalgic,” he gazed at him, a dangerous fire in his eyes. “It’s been a long time since I last walked around Cardassians. Back then, I had a role of importance on both sides of the war. Now, everything feels so empty without them… I never thought I’d come to actually miss them.” Glain let go off him, gulping.

“I’d like to see those computers. Now. Please.”

“Certainly, yes,” Juran nodded and finally took them to the room. There, he sat in front of the console.

“What about you tell me what you want and I get it for you?” he offered.

“My friend  _ really _ is capable of helping you. I’d rather you let me do. It’ll be a lot faster this way,” Glain started to put some PADDs on the dashboard, inserted rods and got some researches running.

“You seem to know what you’re doing indeed,” the Bajoran admitted. “But I have to watch that you don’t do anything you’re not supposed to. Still, have a seat,” he offered but didn’t move from the chair. Glain waited, then understood what was suggested.

“No, this is disorderly. I’ll stand.”

“Or rather, you won’t stand sitting-”

“Stop trying to argue with me!” the Cardassian hissed.

##  * * *

Melekor wasn’t having half the fun Glain had; it was easy at first, calibrating the soil reclamators, suggesting and implementing improvements, but minutes turned into hours, and there came a point where the spiders that were starting to crawl over the equipment became harder to ignore. And the Bajoran, too. She wanted to kill him, she had a phaser; she’d shoot him. Oh, she’d agreed to put the thing to stun, but how could he be certain? She’d shoot him for sure: he was a  _ Cardassian _ . He could sense things from her, frustration and dislike. Oh, she wanted him dead, she’d delight in killing him, it’d give her one hell of a rush.

Swiftly, he withdrew from the panel and walked behind her to go access another tool – a Bajoran type bolt-sealer, which had a conveniently sharp end. It was this end that he pressed against her neck as he passed again, holding onto her and hissing in her ear.

“Get rid of that phaser,  _ now _ , or I’ll be the one who kills  _ you _ .” Nileka froze, trying to relax and thinking to herself that she’d been in much worse situations before. She certainly had.

“Alright, I will,” she said, but instead she quickly grabbed his hands and pushed the both of them backwards to make them fall. All that could be heard before they crashed against the floor with a thud, was the muffled sounds of a scream. There was a  _ gigantic spider,  _ just next to where they landed, and at loss for better things to do, Melekor shuffled the Bajoran at it and crawled away on his back, eyes wide and the tool outreached in front of him in case the arachnid was going to come after him, which, of course, it did. As the creature lounged at him, he plunged the tool into the spider – it was eerie that it, at the very same time, bit him, straight in the shoulder, exactly where he’d stabbed it. He twisted the blade, the bite hurt worse, so he drew the blade out again, and stabbed himself again. Somewhere around this point, the aching feeling dulled away into something more pleasant and blissful, almost calming.

Nileka looked at the stunned Cardassian with disbelief. What in the Prophets’ Hands could lead someone to stab  _ himself _ and  _ repeatedly _ so!?

“I suppose that’s all for today’s work,” she looked at the blood pouring from the man’s injury and went to get a medikit, striding, because she couldn’t run. She’d badly hit her head in the fall and still felt a little dizzy. Hopefully it wasn’t a commotion.

She was still nursing the Cardassian when the other two came back. Glain was extremely giddy, with the arrogant smugness of an archivist who had successfully and delightfully hacked through Obsidian locks to access the Cardassian data he’d come to collect.

“Lykes called-” Glain stopped talking, then rushed to Melekor’s side, not paying much heed to the Bajoran (who now had a bit of blood showing at the back of the head). “What happened!?”

“He’s not dead, and me neither, thank you,” Nileka pushed him away to keep fresh air for herself. “He nearly killed me, but then he started to stab himself and don’t ask me why,  _ I have no idea _ ,” she glared at him. “Juran,” she turned to the other, “You are  _ so _ going to pay for that.” The man bit his lips, and so did Glain. He hit his combadge.

“Lykes.  _ Lykes! _ ”

“Something’s wrong with your brother?” came the voice.

“I have a Bajoran scientist with bloody hair. Melekor got stabbed.”

“By her?”

“No, by himself,” Glain answered pissedly. “Just get us beamed. And maybe think of trying to do something for that woman.”

Far from there, Timun looked at Julian.”I’m  _ so _ sorry… maybe we should investigate?”

“I have to say, I’m a bit horrified over the mess this medication tends to get that man into,” Julian muttered with a headshake, “I’ll set the coordinates and beam us there – I assume you want to come along?” he rose his eyebrows to get a confirmation before beam-over.

 

Getting transported was always a bit disorientating, but Timun decided he liked it, because if he was going to join Starfleet, it was going to happen a lot, and so he’d better like it.

“We’re still on Bajor?” he asked, looking at the architecture.

“No, welcome to Cardassia Four!” Juran Leeto drummed his knuckles on a railing with energy. Then he stopped and added, “Joke aside, the weapon the Cardassian stabbed himself with is there; it’s a bolt-sealer. I’d rather you take care of Nileka first, though,” he said and folded his arms behind his back.

“That wasn’t funny,” the woman finally reacted with some delay. Glain just stood there a bit awkwardly, letting Timun look at Melekor. The doctor started with a phelenaxinide shot for good measure, while Julian scanned the woman.

“That must have been quite a nasty blow,” he commented, “I’m surprised you could move around, let alone  _ treat him _ ,” he gesticulated over his shoulder at the inanimate Cardassian, “on the upside, this won’t take long to treat,” he added and continued onto doing so.

“Congratulations,” the Vulcan-Trill muttered to Melekor as if he could hear him, “you nearly cut the tendon and you damaged a nerve.” He looked at the medical tools the woman had been using and winced. She’d seemingly started with the dermal regenerator to close the wound, but went on with the spray applicator. Timun noticed two empty capsules in the hypospray and took a closer look. “Did she use this on him?” he asked Glain.

“She seemed to know what she was doing…” he murmured. “Is it bad?”

“Well, at least he’s not going to feel any pain when he wakes up considering he got  _ twenty _ cc of terakine, but I’m a bit worried of how that’s going to interact with…” he looked carefully at other the capsule and winced, “four ccs of cordrazine, really!? That’s enough to bring four persons back from the dead,” he looked at the tricorder in his other hand. “Now that explains the tachycardia and high blood pressure, but his heart seems to be enduring enough, and I think the phelenaxinide is ...having a positive effect with that too. That’s barbaric,” he shook his head and grabbed his personal neural regenerator to start caring for the damaged nerve before getting to the tissue.

“They’re doing good,” Juran whispered to Glain’s ear, setting his hands on the young man’s shoulders – he moved away at once.

“Stop it now,” the young man hissed at him and held to his bag – the Bajoran kept on smiling smugly anyway.

Nileka was soon done being cared for and Julian moved to Timun’s side to ask if he needed assistance.

“I think I’ve seen worse in my intern days,” the Vulcan-Trill told him, “but I was in a hospital facility then. I’d like to have him beamed to the runabout and continue there so we can get to the infirmary as soon as possible. He should be stable until then, but if something happens, we could at least synthesize some more drugs with the replicator onboard,” he kept on working with the regenerator to reconnect the nerves. He knew he probably shouldn’t be smiling this much considering the situation, but as he realized, he’d  _ missed _ emergencies.

“You see, it’s on days like this that I  _ love _ my job, because the funniest is I know practically nothing about Cardassian biology because your people,” he shot at Melekor who was still unconscious, “are so secretive that half of what’s found in textbooks simply has no application! Go back to the basics. All the time,” he grinned. Julian laughed in agreement – the connivence was pleasant. In a way, it was good not to be alone with that one frustration.

Meanwhile, Glain and Juran had approached Nileka to check that she was alright.

“I am  _ really _ sorry about this,” the Cardassian told her. “I ensure you it wouldn’t have happened if my brother’s medication hadn’t been stolen-”

“Two  _ weeks _ , Juran,” she grunted. “The doctor said I have to rest for two weeks! I  _ can’t  _ stop working for two weeks! This step of the project was supposed to be finalized for the new Kai’s choosing, which  _ is _ in two weeks!” she fumed.

“And how much progress have you made today with my tourist?” Juran asked.

“Well,” Nileka groaned, “he did solve the problem we’ve been stuck with for the entire past month, I suppose.”

“I am glad to hear that,” the man grinned. “You’re on sick leave then, and I’ll defend you to the new Kai myself if I have to. Bareil’s a reasonable man, he wouldn’t want you to overwork and do a sloppy job. Quality over quantity,” he turned his attention to the Starfleet doctor as he spoke. “Thank you for your help doctor…?”

“Bashir,” answered Julian, beaming a little, “Julian Bashir. I believe we’ll have to go now,” he nodded a bit, then motioned for Glain to come with the rest of them, and pressed his combadge, “Energize.”

 

They rematerialized in the runabout, and got to working with Melekor. Julian found that he and Lykes made a pretty smooth team; the Vulcan-Trill doctor was a rather good one.

“You know, there are other ways to enter Starfleet than through the academy,” he told him as they worked on the Cardassian’s shoulder, “you could always work by commission. It saves unnecessary education to those who already have professional skills, and saves time too. I  _ could _ look into putting in a recommendation for you, though I’d need your diplomas and a list of work experience to send it.”

“You would?” Timun wouldn’t exactly have dared to ask this much. “I mean, I’ll produce all documents you need,” he smiled largely as they got Melekor stabilized. “I must admit it feels absolutely amazing to be in here, and on orbit,” he glanced outside, at the darkness and at the corner of Bajor they could see. “I’ve always wanted to pilot a runabout,” he confessed.

“If you’re going to do it like with those hovercrafts you told us about, I’d rather you stay well away from the dashboard,” Glain objected and came closer to Julian to make him understand better what that meant. “He drove them off cliffs  _ on purpose _ .”

“I was  _ paid _ to do that, to live  _ test _ the modifications. Also, it was in my youth, and I’m quite certain we’ve all done our share of silly things in our teenage years,” Timun rolled his eyes and Julian snickered a little.

“Then you should take piloting classes,” he recommended as he gave Melekor the hypospray that would ease him back into a waken state. Melekor started twitching a little. Reality was returning to him like a particularly blinding light, and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, was-

“ _ Timun Lykes _ ,” even though he was still half-fluffy, the anger in his eyes and voice were sharp. He still remembered the threat Lykes had made over the combadge, and how embarrassed it had made him.

“Maybe we should have let him sleep,” Timun shook his head. “Well, I guess we should get the children and be on our way to the station,” he turned away, letting Glain take his place near Melekor.

“It’s going to be fine now, you’re safe,” the young Cardassian held his brother’s hands, looking at him with bright green eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Like killing Lykes,” Melekor answered his brother instantly, holding onto his hand with fierce energy, “I can’t  _ believe _ he still pursues me.” Timun preferred to pretend he did not hear Melekor, instead focusing on chit-chat with Julian over the dashboards, observing what the Starfleet officer was doing. As they prepared to return to the orphanage however, the Cardassian was still ranting rather offensively and the Vulcan snapped a bit.

“Alright, that’s quite enough now,” he cut off. “Be careful, because if you keep on behaving like a child maybe we’re going to mistake you for one and leave you at the orphanage,” he warned. “I’m sorry for what I said over the combadge earlier, but you can be thankful that Zirem didn’t let Toral try your hypospray on either of them. I had to confiscate her doll who got two shots however,” he told more seriously and the notion of what awful fate any of the kids could have met was enough to turn Melekor quiet.

##  * * *

The previous day, Ywanna and Savras had been assigned quarters in the end of the station about the opposite to where Melekor and Timun’s were located; it overlooked the inner portion of the station, and you could see the distant contours of the central point through the windows. Ywanna had to visit Quark’s to prod him some about her son’s odd decision to go to Bajor, of all places, and the Ferengi let her know that Melekor had gone there with  _ Timun Lykes,  _ his kid and another Cardassian. Whatever reason Garak would have to go to Bajor, Ywanna didn’t know. All she knew was that this was all very bad – and as if it wasn’t enough, Quark started to beware her that her son would soon turn into a daughter, if she didn’t do something about it. It wasn’t until she passed Garak’s Clothier on her way back to her room, that she understood Garak couldn’t be the other Cardassian; he was closing shop for lunch hours, and she hurried her steps to avoid talking to him. Questions were to be asked, but they weren’t for his ears.

 

Meanwhile, Savras had ditched the quarters entirely. She hadn’t even set foot in there since the assignment, but instead holed herself up in the Replimat, close to the replicator, drinking cup of tea upon cup of tea until night came, at which point she moved to Quark’s. Only when the bar closed was she forced to join Ywanna in their quarters, but moved back to the Replimat as soon as she awoke, around lunch time. Past fourteen hundred hours, she was still there; ten empty tea cups stood next to her, and an eleventh throned between her hands. She was having tremors, but they were minor and easy to ignore. Most of all, she appreciated the heat of the tea, and that was all there was to the entirety of her existence.

“May I sit?” came a voice that should have been warm but felt a bit dry. The man didn’t wait for an answer however, simply sitting there with his own cup. He knew he should have gotten something to eat too, but even soup felt too hard to swallow.

Jaden had arrived shortly before, hoping to find his son, but disappointedly learning from Quark that he was on  _ Bajor _ , of all places, with Dziana and that Melekor Cardassian, whose mother apparently had concerns for too. Not so surprisingly. He tried to smile at Savras, though.

“That’s a lot of empty cups there,” he said. “Make it twelve and I bet Doctor Bashir will end up getting you to the infirmary… At least it’s not raktajino,” he gave a subtle sniff. “Such an amount of it would pierce your stomach as surely as a bat’leth. Now,” he leaned forth a bit, concern on his face and eyes a bit redder than was usual for a Trill, “did your board computer get a proper identification of that ship that attacked you?”

“How do you know about that?” Savras asked, a cold sensation flying through her stomach, “Who are you?”

“You don’t know yet?” he answered, glancing around. “You’re not going to like it, but we’re on the same side. However, I need to know what exactly we’re up against. And do you know where exactly on Bajor are my kids and those two Cardassians? Though, I guess you don’t know yet about your friend’s brother, do you?” There the realization dawned on Savras.

“You are Timun’s father,” she identified him, then lifted her cup again, to warm her hands, “As I understand it, you’re Joined? One word of advice to you: you  _ really _ don’t want to sit at the same table as me, having this conversation.”

“Miss Wayan, I’m not asking you to care for  _ me _ . You know what is likely to happen to my children if I’m caught,” he frowned. “I thought you had a little more concern for politics than that, but I suppose that might have changed now.  _ Still _ , there is still a chance for this decision to be revocated. A chance for you to see your daughter again. And no matter you like it or hate it, it involves me right now. But for all I know,” he whispered, “we may both be dead tonight.” Whether that was the truth or not, Savras didn’t care. He was a manipulator and she wouldn’t play along.

“So be it then. I’m not like you. I care more about my daughter, than myself – if I have to  _ die _ for her to live a happy life, I will. Now, get away, or I’ll call station security and tell them that you’re disrupting this establishment.”

“If they get to me, they get to the rest of my family, and that includes your lover boy,” he muttered. “I’ll let you dwell on that and hope you’ll be discreet.”

An empty threat, Savras reckoned. After all, she was in a worse position than he was, and ‘ _ they _ ’ weren’t going to come after her family. No, they were far too discreet and smart to shoot themselves in the foot like that. Still, she found that she wouldn’t mind if someone  _ else _ got to that Jaden creep before  _ they _ did. Someone with a sharp blade and a good aim. Not her, though. She may be banished from Trill, but she wasn’t a criminal, and most certainly not a murderer: the most illegal thing she currently did, was to drink too much tea.  _ Bagged _ tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? :D


	30. Day 26 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the last act of the story...

 

# Part III

##    
The Darkness Between the Stars

  
  


* * *

## Day 26

(continued)

 

It was a relieved group that finally landed in the station’s shuttlebay. Julian, who had intended to teach Timun a bit more about piloting, had found himself with three young pupils in addition, who were all just as focused as the Vulcan-Trill. Melekor, who yearned for nothing but to put distance between himself and Lykes, had been forced to spend the entire trip being positive and nice around him – he’d even gone as far as to agree to play a card games with Terek and Glain when the runabout was set on autopilot, leaving little to observe around the dashboards. Glain managed to win twice, until they decided to play by the more complicated rules, at which point Terek was the one winning, and Melekor came last. As if losing to a child wasn’t enough, Julian had then started to teach the children some Terran songs (‘ _ Row, row, row your boat _ ’ and ‘ _ Baa, baa black sheep _ ’), and the one the most giddy about this was Lykes, who was singing even louder than everyone else once he got the hang of the lyrics, much to the dismay of both Melekor and Terek.

Needless to say, Melekor was immensely happy to set foot on the station, where disorder was restricted to Quark’s. However, the first thing he did was to lead the group to the jumja stand, offering everyone a stick, even  _ Timun _ . Terek however put his jumja stick in his mouth and his hands on his ears. He hadn’t exactly expected the place they’d end up in to be this crowded and this level of noisy.

“Ah,” Timun patted his shoulder, “Maybe we should proceed to the infirmary, see if we can do something so you no longer have the hearing of a Ferengi but without any control over it.”

The teen nodded and accepted Kilem’s offer to hold his stick so he could keep on holding his ears. Not desiring to stay around Timun much longer, Melekor opted out of the group, assuring his reluctant-to-let-him-go brother that he’d simply wait for them at the Replimat. 

There, he found Savras. Savras and a pile of twelve blue cups, which were masterfully balanced on top of each other in some kind of tower-like shape. Something was really wrong with the way she looked – her hair was untidy, her eyes sunk in and swollen, and she didn’t even seem to notice him as he came to sit opposite to her.

“Savras?” he asked, concerned, “What are you doing here? I didn’t think the Levossa were due for another day.” She smiled at him, returning to her old self like a charm.

“Melekor! Where is that brother of yours?” she asked enthusiastically and so  _ joyfully _ that the contrast to her previous appearance became a bit eerie.

“He’s in the infirmary,” he answered, truthfully, “and by the looks of it, you should be there, too. What happened to you?” She shrugged.

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that – Oh, Melekor, I’m so sorry,” she leaned forwards and grabbed his arm, “Your mother bought you  _ such _ a thoughtful gift, but I think we might have wrecked it beyond repair.”

“My mother is back?” he made a grimace; Savras shrugged.

“And I’ve had to stay with her for an entire night,” she commented.

“That explains your state of being,” Melekor recognized, “but I thought you took her to court, why would you share quarters?”

“Accommodation restrictions. Starfleet barely have enough quarters for their own people, let alone visitors with wrecked ships.”

“ _ Wrecked ships? _ ” – Savras grinned.

“As I said, I’m very sorry, it was supposed to be a surprise to you from your mother. No doubt to convince you not to go to Cardassia,” she sighed and leaned back in her chair, “Where is Timun? I have to talk to him.”

“He’s in the infirmary too,” Melekor answered, a bit shocked as Savras got up in an instant, but since it was good that she went there, he didn’t object. Although he  _ did  _ stay behind to put away all her cups for her.

 

“Miss Wayan,” Jabara greeted her. “How many cups today?” she held her tricorder at her.

“Not enough, I’m afraid. I need to talk to Lykes, I was led to believe he’s in here? It’s urgent,” she pressed the matter, then lifted her eyes enough to see ...what must be Melekor’s brother. He was  _ cute _ , wasn’t he? Nothing like what she’d expected when she’d heard ‘ _ Cardassian brother _ ’ – she’d thought about something more manly than this. She flashed a friendly smile at the youngster whose mind drew fast connections.

“Savras, I presume?” he asked, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a more cunning expression on his face.

“And you are Melekor’s brother,” she said, enthusiasm welling over in her voice, “Wow, you’re a lot cuter than him – don’t tell him I said so, he’ll be offended – did Timun manage to keep himself off of you so far, hm?” She winked. Glain flushed a bit, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was more flattered, embarrassed or angry at the suggestions.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” he replied, a bit thrown out of his track. “I’m not answering such disorderly questions. However, he’s consulting right now, so you’ll probably have to wait.  _ Unless _ it’s a matter of life or death, now is it?”

Oh, but he was simply  _ adorable _ , wasn’t he? Savras grinned to herself. So posh, and so easily offended – not Savras’ type, but she could easily imagine Timun and Glain sharing some fun times.

“It’s about his family,” she answered, turning more serious in an instant, “his father contacted me, I think he’s planning on blackmailing Jabin. And he implied that if he goes down, he’ll take the entire family with him – you can tell Lykes that from me.” Glain nodded as if he understood everything, though, really, he didn’t. He just ambled back to the others, letting Savras sit on the closest available bed, sighing to herself then smiling as Jabara approached again to chit-chat.

The Cardassian had to interrupt the doctors as they were discussing (or rather, as Timun listened to Julian’s solution with an impressed look on his face and something akin to stars in his eyes). In a few quick words, he made the Vulcan aware of Savras’s presence and the Trillian doctor had to excuse himself to go check on her and hear what she had to tell. Julian displayed his concern, but let Timun go without inquiring – he had a feeling this wasn’t a topic for children’s ears, anyway.

“You’re up next, Kilem,” he patted the bed instead, and Kilem got up from his seat to sit where Terek had been sitting a second before, “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he started scanning the small Cardassian child. Glain took a PADD from his bag and approached with feigned naive interest.

“Hm, doctor? Just in case it helps you, these are the medical recordings I found. They’re a bit more extended and specific than what Lykes sent you before…”

Truly, the screen mostly read “ _ Don’t mention it out loud. Had this child been genetically engineered, is it something that can be detected? _ ”

“No,” Julian answered instantly, flashing a smile at Glain, “not unless you’re the scientist who did it,” then he added onto the PADD; “ _ Most cases can be detected by the way the person acts because, usually, they don’t end up very functional adults _ .  _ I do not know to what degree you Cardassians deal in genetic engineering, but here in the Federation, it’s a banned practice, and those who have been genetically engineered are seen as a risk to the rest of humankind, and locked away. But more to the point; it can’t be detected medically. _ ” He gave the PADD back to Glain (who quickly erased the content with relief), then continued to check Kilem. “All levels Lykes were concerned about are alright,” he monitored, “you’re in perfect health,” he smiled at Kilem, who didn’t make much of a face.

“And my insides?” he asked instead, with more curiosity.

“You have what appears to be fully functional testicles, though they are not quite where they are supposed to be, and the likes of female genitalia, with a vaginal entrance but no womb.”

“I told you! I’m a boy,” he gloated to Terek, “and in the future  _ I _ will protect you, because I’ll develop to be stronger.” He straightened in his seat, “Doctor, will I grow a penis?” Julian blushed a little and let out a short laughter.

“No, but I’m sure that could be surgically accommodated for.”

There was a brief moment of silence, after which Kilem, with wide eyes, burst out, “Then I want  _ two _ penises!” He was amazed at the concept. More so than Julian.

“I’m afraid that would likely be a little bit impractical, and I don’t think Cardassians usually have more than one,” he patted the boy’s shoulder.

“You should give him two!” Terek spat angrily, “and make them grow out of his  _ ears _ or anywhere it looks stupid, so everybody knows what a stupid idiot he is!” he fumed at his friend. “If you’re a boy then I don’t want to be one, because you are so damn  _ stupid! _ ” The teen looked around and Glain guessed it was with the intention to find something to throw at the other’s face.

“Alright, that’s enough with the rude behaviors,” he stepped in the way and squatted in front of Terek to prevent the child from getting up.

“I don’t want to be protected!” tears of anger brought a wetter coat to his eyes. “I don’t need anyone! I’m much stronger than him!”

“Girls are stronger than men,” Dziana said, setting a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Males of most species don’t carry babies and they can’t stand a little bit of pain without thinking they’re going to  _ die _ .”

“That’s not untrue,” Glain smiled. He looked at Julian, as to ask if there was any tissue somewhere for the sniffling teen. While Julian went to get one, Kilem slid off of the medical table to go sit next to Terek, bravely risking his life in the process. He didn’t betray any of what he felt, but tried to offer his friend an apologetic smile. Truth was, he wanted to be needed – and he was growing concerned that now that they were no longer at the orphanage, when they might even go to Cardassia and be adopted… Terek would no longer need him.

“Here you go,” Julian reappeared with a small, blue cloth, which he reached towards the teen. Terek accepted it gratefully but ignored Kilem with insistence. Feelings were hurt and in a quite unacceptable way so. Anger kept on rising, and along came the tears.

“Don’t you think you’re going to be  _ normal _ now!” Terek finally hissed at the other. “You were a lot better when you didn’t speak and I wish you never opened your mouth! All you say is nasty and if you’re going to have a penis and run after all the girls, I don’t want to be your friend anymore!” Glain sighed and covered his face with a hand.

“Maybe  _ you _ should turn into a girl so I can chase you, too?” Kilem suggested, just to get vengeance for the stupid idea that had just escaped the other’s mouth. He didn’t really think about how it could be interpreted as offensive and he didn’t have the time to think about it any further, as a smacking sound made everybody jolt; Terek had just slapped him.

“Now that’s too much you two!” Glain separated them, or tried to at least, because Terek didn’t seem exactly done with the boy. Before the archivist understood how he’d done it, Terek had shoved the other onto the floor entirely, and the both of them continued there, with Terek sitting ontop of him, and Kilem holding his arms over his face to protect himself from more assault.

“They are  _ your _ children, Mister Rokat,” Julian decided.

“I haven’t adopted them! Not  _ yet! _ ” Glain defended himself and glared at them, in hope the implicit threat might calm them a bit. Dziana wasn’t helping in the least, encouraging Terek.

“ _ Pinch him in the neck! _ ” she suggested eagerly, and Terek went for it, grabbing both sides of the neck and pinching hard.

“What are you!? Klingons!?” Glain tried to separate them again, and when force didn’t work, he poked Terek’s sides with lithe fingers, just a bit below the ribcage. The teen let out a yelped and couldn’t help but laugh and let go off the other’s neck.

“Alright, that’s enough, now,” Doctor Bashir finally demanded, “As you’re all in perfect health, and there might be others who aren’t, I’m going to have to ask you to calm yourselves and give me some work peace. Or I could get a hose of cold water to spray on top of you. I’ll have you know that it’s a very efficient way of breaking up arguments.” Glain felt incredibly embarrassed.

“Such a behavior is absolutely  _ unacceptable _ in Cardassia,” he added to the doctor’s threat. “If you are going to behave this way, I should take you back to the orphanage for your own good.” This had the effect of the cold water mentioned by Julian without even requiring to get any. At once, Terek stood up straight and military again in body language, arms crossed behind the back and chest puffed up – without the binder, the small volume there was a little more noticeable, but it was far behind current concerns.

“I apologize for my loss of temper and my poor choice of action. I reckon my errors and I am ready to welcome any punishment I deserve. If you see fit, I am willing to take responsibility for the mess caused by my companion.” Glain looked at him, mirroring the attitude, and nodded.

“This is more acceptable. You will now follow me to our quarters in complete silence until further decisions are made concerning your fate.” This said, he turned around and led the way out.

##  * * *

Timun felt like they were an entire crew getting out of the infirmary, and that wasn’t far from the truth, even more so after they’d collected Melekor from the Replimat. Timun had taken Dziana in his arms, maybe in fear another fight might start, with her involved this time – and he knew how dangerous this could get with her Vulcan strength. He held Savras’s hand though, and threw threatening glares at anyone giving looks to the Cardassians. The children were doing an excellent job at ignoring everybody however, and even Glain seemed too upset to care.

They made it to the quarters in relative silence and split as each went to their bedroom, the Cardassians on one side, the Vulcans and Trill on the other. Upon entering, Timun choked and sneered at the side of his father half-sitting, half-laying on his bed – Savras had warned him, but this wasn’t a sight Timun would have ever expected to see. Jaden didn’t look well at all, and somehow, the Vulcan-Trill was surprised to feel a pinch of worry inside him. He might hate the man, Jaden Mynx was still his father.

“Dad!” Dziana’s eyes went wide and she ran to him. Then she blinked and looked at Timun. “Timun’s my dad too now,” she said. The man smiled and took her on his lap, gently kissing her forehead.

“So I’ve heard… but you’re still my little bird,” he nuzzled her and hugged her tenderly. He looked exhausted. Timun felt his guts twist at the sight.

“You smell funny,” Dzi pointed.

“I know…” he murmured, eyes closed tight.

“You’re squishing me a bit.”

“I’m sorry…” he squished her even more. Timun felt paralyzed as he just watched, an ominous feeling creeping upon him. He opened his mouth, but only to breathe better. “I love you…!” Jaden buried his face in the hug.

“Are you crying, dad?” the little girl tried to wriggle free.

“Let her go,” Timun tried to order but his voice sounded as pale as he was.

“She’s still my daughter, no matter what,” Jaden looked at him with red eyes. “And you’re my son. And… I need you.” He let Dziana sit by his side instead and got a data rod from his pocket, which he threw at Timun. “Replicate it for me at the infirmary. If you can persuade Bashir to use his personal code, do it, for your sake. Be quick… I should have needed this an hour ago,” his eyes flickered a bit and he pressed a hand on his belly.

“You look like you’re about to faint! What’s going on!?” Timun got closer.

“Just go get it! And no, I’m  _ not _ going to the infirmary. You’re the only doctor I need right now, and we don’t want to involve security by putting that rod in the replicator here…” his gaze wasn’t keeping in focus but he still managed to lay it on Savras. “They don’t teach you that at the Commission, do they? Hypermnemosis, ah!” he let out a cry of pain – Dziana echoed with worry, trying to hold him. “Get it now, Timun!”

“I’m getting you beamed to-”

“No! I  _ can’t _ go there! One of that doctor’s best friends is a fucking Joined Trill, we can’t risk this! You go and you come back!” he held his forehead with a hand, Dziana’s hand in the other.

Timun glanced at Savras, horror in his eyes. In that short moment, they communicated without words, understanding each other even if none of them approved of what Timun was doing, obeying to Jaden. He stepped out of the room.

“Computer, contact the infirmary. Request permission to be beamed in for medical emergency.” Seconds later, he dematerialized and reappeared in sick bay, looking around to locate Julian.

“Hi again, sorry, I need whatever’s on this rod,  _ now _ ,” Timun said with a strangled voice, holding the amber stick to the other. “I think it’s a drug. For one of my patients – met in the corridors, didn’t want to come here,” he stuttered in a mixture of shock and stress. “I might be a bit too disturbed to remember my authorization code, oh dear Guardians…” Why couldn’t they have a second of respite, really? What had his idiot of a father done to end up like that!? Timun had a feeling that if he were to die, the Commission would be most thorough in the autopsy, and a lot of illegal things would surface. The sort that would frame Jaden as a Rogue, the sort that would throw huge suspicions on the entire family and keep Jabin at bay from ever entering the Commission. Timun closed his eyes a second. He felt a bit dizzy. Julian took the rod without a word, then led Timun into the surgery room for privacy, closing the doors behind them.

“Have a seat,” he motioned towards the bed there, “and tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.” Timun dropped on the bed, mind racing fast but spinning in a tangled web of thoughts, doubts and fears.

“I am  _ so _ sorry and  _ so _ ashamed,” he uttered dryly, like he had when they last spoke from either sides of a forcefield. “This isn’t how I usually work and-” He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. There was anger lingering in his guts, and he knew that if it were to rise, it would be an absolute disaster. “I found my father in my quarters and he told me to get this thing for him, a treatment he should have taken an hour ago and I have  _ no idea _ what it is. I’ve never seen him like this but he looks like he’s about to die, and he doesn’t want to get here because he doesn’t trust your Trill friend wouldn’t hear of it,” he said very fast. “My brother suggested to me that my father’s symbiont might be sick or something however, and no, the Symbiosis Commission can’t hear of this. There are  _ things _ going on on Trill, you have no idea,” he gave Julian a terrified look. “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry! Please, don’t involve station security…” Oh, damn, if he didn’t end up in detention again, that would be a miracle. “I really hope what’s on that rod isn’t illegal…” Julian took a deep breath and set the rod into the computer to see what was on it.

“Your father is going to have to come here, whether he likes it or not. I need to examine him myself – and he should know Starfleet has doctor-patient confidentiality. Let’s see what we have here,” he leaned closer to the list of ingredients. Timun came over to take a look as well.

“My father’s a shifty man, Doctor,” he murmured while reading. A high dosage of synthesis isoboramine caught his attention at once, as well as syneprine, psylonine and endorphins, among other drugs to stabilize vital functions. “Oh, Guardians,” he muttered the swear, “tell me he’s not rejecting the symbiont… Hypermnemosis is what he mentioned, it’s rare and a bit obscure but that  _ shouldn’t _ cause a rejection, only headache, disorientation, nausea and hallucinations at worse,” he straightened up. “And  _ mostly _ it occurs only soon after getting Joined when an unsuited host’s mind tries to reject the memories inherited from the symbiont. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, this is definitely not something I can just replicate and give to you, I have to see the patient for myself. I am the responsible Chief Medical aboard.”

Thus did Julian instruct the computer to beam over Lykes’s father onto the examination table, branding it a medical emergency. Jaden was quite angry to rematerialize there, but too exhausted and in no condition to fight, so he just threw Timun a very betrayed look.

“If your brother never is allowed to perform symbiosis, it’ll be your fault,” he sniped at him.

“No, it’ll be  _ your _ fault, as it always is for everything,” Timun answered back, starting to get him undressed for further examination. “Now, tell us what’s going on. You’re not supposed to suffer from hypermnemosis after over thirty five years of symbiosis. And I really advise you to speak. Medical secrecy  _ is _ respected here.” The man chuckled, but not for long.

“I’ve recently been Joined,” he hissed, then explained further. “My symbiont was removed without my consent, implanted in someone else, then returned to me. It was done in a hurry. Five times-”

“Five times!?” the doctors echoed. Jaden nodded.

“We’re taking the toll now,” he laid back on the table as Timun removed his shirt, trying not to gasp at the presence of a fluid alike to a mix of lymph and blood oozing from the abdominal pouch. “I was supposed to obtain treatment from someone, but they never came to the rendezvous. That’s why I have to ask you to replicate it for me. It’s not illegal, but it requires medical authorization and… I’d rather my government never knows about it.” Julian nodded and got to working – his first priority being to see that the host and symbiont would both live. Having set the replicator to synthesize the drug, he got to do a more thorough observation of Jaden as well as Mynx.

“It’s the symbiont,” Julian declared pretty much instantly, “the symbiont is the one whose condition is critical – I’m reading a severe swelling of its outer organs, and I believe a serious inflammation of its internal parts. My god, what kind of treatment causes this?” he looked searchingly at Jaden, “Whoever did this to you, must have been barbaric...”

“They were  _ terrorists _ ,” Jaden said with a strangle voice, trying to seem amused. “But if the Commission gets to know of this assault, they won’t care to know the details of my innocence.” Timun shook his head.

“Stop it with the lies! Your levels of isoboramine are at  _ sixty-four _ percents and dropping! If they fall under forty, we are sworn by our oath as Federal doctors to bring you back to Trill, to the Commission, and you  _ know _ what will happen then, so I advise you to talk. Don’t force me to get the information we need to treat you!”

“Even if I told you the truth you wouldn’t believe it,” Jaden rolled his eyes. “That drug should do the trick anyway, at least until my doctor arrives – she’s very good at what she does.” His son glared at him. He was losing patience. “I won’t speak in front of that man,” Jaden said flatly, looking at Julian. The Starfleet doctor stared at Jaden, then looked at Timun, then Jaden again.

“Well, my first concern now is to stabilize both of you, if you’ll just stay still,” he distributed the medicine through a hypospray, then delivered local anesthetics to open a hole on Jaden’s side, through which he could start treating the symbiont, “What happened to you is torture, abuse… you understand that I  _ will _ have to contact the Symbiosis Commission, for the sake of the symbiont? Without their care, the symbiont may very well die, and if it dies, you die too – I am not very confident this drug will take you very far, and even if it does, it is my obligation, as a doctor, to prevent further abuse.”

“You will  _ not _ do this,” Jaden glared at him. “It isn’t torture, it’s  _ sacrifice _ .” He looked up at the ceiling, wincing a bit and gasping some as the anesthetics didn’t make the intervention anything less unpleasant –  _ he _ didn’t feel pain, but he could feel Mynx’s. The drug wasn’t exactly intended for such a dire situation already.

“I’m giving an additional two cc of ceptacedrine,” Timun notified Julian as he recharged the hypospray. “Sacrifice doesn’t sound like you,” he answered his father while administering the dosage.

“How can you know? I was never there… It was for the best,” Jaden sighed, relaxing a little. “I lived a meaningful life, one Mynx enjoyed too. After eight lives spent in accordance to Commission standards, believe me, a symbiont knows  _ a lot _ about sacrifice, and this one has had enough.”

“I’m not interested in your… whatever it is you think you’re accomplishing,” Julian cut short, “My interest is your continued health, that of both the host  _ and _ the symbiont, and if I should be completely honest, I think the host might die either way.”

“Two hours, Doctor Bashir, maintain me for at least  _ two hours _ ,” Jaden pleaded. His throat felt terribly dry, but he tried to be strong. “My doctor  _ should _ be arriving then.”

“Shh, I’m not letting you die so easily,” the Vulcan-Trill shielded his mind in denial while adapting the settings of the neurostimulator on his father’s forehead. Hours before on Bajor, he’d been entranced about the medical emergency. Now, he felt dead inside. His mind still ran fast however, and his focus only kept on increasing. “Once we’ve punctured most of the inflammation from Mynx, we should take it out for further care. I can certainly do it without damaging the cord – I don’t imagine you’ve ever had the chance to perform this sort of intervention?” he asked Julian.

“Not that exact kind; informations about Joined Trill physiology aren’t really easy to come by either,” he had to admit. “I’ll refer to you as an expert in Trill physiology for the time being, Lykes; I don’t have an adequate enough grasp of the subject to make the hard calls – but, I appreciate the fact that this is your father. I can take the symbiont out for you, or if you feel like you need a break, you’re free to do so at any point,” he patted the half-Vulcan’s shoulder, “Regardless of what happens, I need to think about the lives of both the symbiont  _ and _ the host, and it’s not a straightforward choice.”

“I want to be awake,” Jaden said, and Julian almost startled, “You can start, Timun. You can do it… meld with me if you really must, so I can guide you, but let’s try to avoid this, hm?”

Julian couldn’t help but think of Verad, the Trill who had forced him to transplant the Dax symbiont into him and had insisted to stay awake through the procedure out of paranoia, and to  _ guide _ him. For a second, the doctor had to wonder if Trills didn’t have more in common with Cardassians than he would had imagined, in matter of paranoia . But this wasn’t time for such questions and both he and Timun put on the red uniforms of surgery before passing through the decontamination shower. Timun looked at the tools at his disposal and nodded.

“Let’s start then.” 

He began by cleaning the belly and the pouch once more before laying fields around the area. He stretched the thin skin of the pouch and let Julian hold it open while he incised the inside with care. Holding his breath, he plunged a hand inside his father’s body. Somehow, he knew that Jaden too must be thinking they’d never been so close. He jolted a bit when he touched Mynx, instantly feeling a vibration in his mind. There was pain, but it was probably the symbiont’s suffering. There was gentleness too however, and somehow, Timun felt guided in the task, working eyes closed to softly detach the creature from the spine and slide it out – clearly, Mynx knew the procedure  _ well _ and was very compliant.

“I never imagined it could be so ...easy,” he blew in surprise as he drew it through the pouch. “I was taught they tend to be very clingy…” He silenced as he finally could see Mynx. People called them worms, but Timun thought of this symbiont as looking more alike to a squid with a single tentacle and flaccid body, pale, milky, but somehow iridescent too. The convoluted areas of the head were inflamed and reddish, but the puncture had done them well.

For a moment, Timun just stared with emotion, his hands still holding the creature.  _ “You’re my father,” _ he felt his thought navigating to the symbiont. In return, he received a gentle vibe, like an electric current through his body, sending shivers of joy and affection in his arms and chest. “There, there… it’s going to be fine…” he murmured and turned Mynx to expose the ventral part, trying not to pull too much on the spinal cord, and started to examine and treat with the greatest care. Again, he ended up discarding the scanner and simply kept in touch with the symbiont, using the skills that were being shared with him for this short moment. It was an entrancing experience, and he was only conscious of the orders he gave to Julian to pass him a tool or dosage of some drug once he spoke the words.

At last, he gave Mynx a last caress before inserting it back into the safe cozyness of its host. “Let’s put them into stasis,” he blew with emotion.

“Timun…” Jaden murmured faintly, seeking for his hand. “I was never there, and when I was, I was a terrible father… but I always was proud of my children,” he held Timun’s fingers but couldn’t tighten his own as tightly as he wished to. “Can you ever forgive me?” The Vulcan added his second hand over theirs and smiled.

“No, I can’t… I wanted you to die in a way or another so we’d be free from you. But I forbid you to die now, is that clear?” he asked with wet eyes.

“Very clear,” Jaden smiled with wet eyes too. “I love you.” Timun looked at Julian and nodded, letting him start the stasis. The Vulcan-Trill tried to say something, but all he could do was to stare his thanks as tears trickled down on their own. He was in mild shock.

“Stasis will be enough to keep them alive for a week or so,” Julian said softly after he’d distributed the hypospray to sedate Mynx and its host, then beamed the man to the stasis chamber and calibrated the settings there, “it gives us enough time to contact the Symbiosis Commission, and for them to come here.” He went to Lykes and set a hand on his arm, “If they have any questions to ask... would you like to be the one to make the call to them? I am the responsible medical officer aboard the station, but I doubt I could give as good an insight into his issues as you could.” Timun tried to calm down a bit first. He still had various fluids on his hands and looked at them in slight disbelief now that his father no longer laid on the table.

“He didn’t feel the pain because of the drugs, but… he could feel his organs being touched, moved, pulled… And I could feel what he felt. The symbiont is like… like an organ. It was like pulling his heart or liver out while it still functioned,” he said. “And he’s gone through this procedure…” he couldn’t repeat the number he’d learned during the operation. “This isn’t even supposed to be possible!” he looked at Julian again, then realized there had been a question. “I… I guess I have a very good insight on what just happened and… I will make the call, yes. But not now if you don’t mind. I think I need to… settle down a little.” Julian hummed a little, but moved over to the subspace call station.

“I rather think it’s better we make the call as soon as possible. You’ll have to grant them the details when they arrive, and when you feel better,” he smiled reassuringly to Timun. “It’s an emergency, and Starfleet has its protocols. I’ll make sure to mention what a great part you served in this, though. There’s a sonic shower just around the corner there, feel free to wash yourself and go back to your quarters to sleep. It’s been a hectic day for you.”

“Alright… Then, maybe you can tell them he was headed toward Ferenginar for business when the terrorists assaulted him, out of Federation space. It should be mentioned that they might still be in this sector considering how organized the attack was.” He took a deep breath at last and walked over the decontamination shower and undressed. He felt a bit high.

“I’ll do that,” Julian simply said, granting Timun the privacy he’d made himself deserving of. Trill terrorists. Now that was something Julian had never heard of. All he knew of Trill was that they were a flourishing society, peaceful and advanced. That this kind of violence could exist there, of all places… But then, maybe those terrorists were exiles. Jadzia  _ had _ told him that exile was a harsh but possible outcome of several different transgressions. According to her, though, such punishments were hardly ever pressed, because in the end, no one wanted to risk that for themselves and the symbiont. Still... if there had been exiles, and they had procreated elsewhere, it stood to reason that there could be Trill sub-societies out there in the vast blackness, and that  _ those  _ particular individuals might not share Julian’s own rosy vision of Trill. Nor did Timun, in this moment, he could tell. But again, this was no time for such discussions.

“Go to bed, doctor Lykes,” was all he had to say to him.

##  * * *

Melekor had fully intended to take his distressed piece of clothing to Garak’s so the tailor could mend the holes in the shoulder, but he was interrupted on the way by Quark. One thing went to another, and he didn’t leave the bar until he had a bottle of Kanar in his hand, and a determined stride (albeit not entirely steady) set in the direction of his mother’s quarters. There, he chimed the door, and was accepted inside. He’d wanted to know everything about what Savras had meant when she’d talked to him earlier, but his mother didn’t oblige so easily. They shared the bottle of Kanar and Melekor got more drunk, while his mother didn’t. He suspected she secretly threw away her drinks, but since there were no stains to prove it, he couldn’t make the accusation.

“I thought, ‘ _ if I buy him a freighter, a ship of his own, _ ’ that you’d stay here, where it’s safe,” Ywanna explained to him softly as she leaned over the table to pat his hand. He scoffed.

“Ah, yes, it’s so safe in Federal space, it’s not like you and Savras were attacked by raiders and the ship was wrecked beyond repair – but  _ thank you _ for your thoughtful gift,  _ Mother _ ,” he lifted the glass with a long, annoyed look at her.

“So that’s what she told you?” Ywanna shook her head, “It’s time you think twice about what people tell you, Melekor.”

“I’d like you to call me ‘ _ Elem, _ ’” Elem insisted, pointing a wavering finger at her.

“I was hoping to talk to you about that,” Ywanna recognized and nodded thoughtfully, “I want you to understand, what I did for you when you were a child was for your own good. It won’t do you any services to try and turn into someone else now – you’re already  _ you _ .”

“You are right. I  _ am _ me,” Elem stabbed the table with his fingers, nearly tipping over the near-empty bottle, “I am  _ finally _ me. I’m not becoming something, I’m... I’m just being me.”

“Maybe we should discuss this when you’re not drunk?” Ywanna suggested helpfully.

“You mutilated me when I was a baby!” Elem complained, nearly bursting into tears, “How could you do that to me!?”

“I thought it was for your own good – and the medical personnel present agreed with me.”

“Ha! What did you threaten him with to make him do it?” Melekor asked and tried to pour the last of the Kanar in his glass, “You’re a blackmailing, dirt-talking-”

“I didn’t threaten anyone!”

“Oh, fuck you.” Elem refilled the glasses, got up from his seat and went to put the empty bottle in the replicator, missed and ended up dropping it on the floor. No matter. “I’ll have you know that I’ll contact him,” he burst out and turned around, bumping into the wall, “I’ll contact him and I’ll confront him, and  _ all of Cardassia _ will know.” Ywanna had stiffened.

“Contact who, exactly?” she asked, getting up from her seat slowly, an uncharacteristic expression of dread masking her face.

“Why, Crell Moset of course! You never thought I’d figure it out, but  _ I did _ ,” he grinned in satisfaction. Ywanna’s expression of dread was replaced with a more dumbfounded face.

“Moset?” she asked in disbelief, “He had nothing to do with that – how do you even know his name?”

“You told me,” Elem (or was it Melekor?) waved a hand at his mother, “I always listened. Your late night calls, I heard them all, I know  _ everything _ .” Ywanna took a deep breath and seemed to brace herself.

“Then you’d better go ahead and confront Moset – but I warn you, you’ll be disappointed. He had nothing to do with your birth,” Elem squinted at her, then walked to the exit.

“Reverse psychology won’t work on me,” he told her firmly.

“Sweetheart, you’re drunk as a madman, if I let you go to your quarters, I bet security will pick you up and put you in a holding cell.” He didn’t listen to her then either.

 

While Timun and Melekor were away, the children had had a little more fun. After Savras had explained the situation to Glain, the Cardassian had somewhat softened, empathizing with the anxious little Vulcan, and started a conversation about food and cooking. Everybody played with the replicator, ordering Bajoran or Trillian dishes to taste and criticize, expanding each other’s culture. It was a very un-Cardassian thing to do, but it was fine – nobody would know.

Eventually, Glain required a much-needed nap, but never came back from his room once he’d fallen deeply asleep. Terek and Dziana ended up talking about technology while Savras claimed the couch, laying there with Kilem nuzzled up against her and slumbering to her side. It wasn’t long before the Trill woman fell asleep too, and not long either before Melekor returned. He entered the room in a disgraceful, but silent manner, yet was still evident enough that he awoke Savras. She only had to look at him once, to understand what state he was in.

“Go to bed,” she told him firmly, and he didn’t need to be told twice, as he ambled rather quickly to his room, and collapsed on top of the first available bed, and its poor occupant.

Next to enter was Timun, back from the infirmary and from a long walk through the corridors. And still a bit shocked.

“Timun, how’s dad?” Dziana asked as soon as she caught sight of her brother.

“Alive,” the doctor answered. “Both Jaden and Mynx are very, very strong,” he smiled. “Now they have to rest from the treatment, and you should get some rest too. Go to the bedroom, sweetheart. It’s an order.” He looked at Terek who had come closer, and poked Kilem. “You two should go with her. Go play together calmly, just don’t mess anything.” There was hesitation among the children but they complied, following Dziana. Timun let out a loud sigh and fell next to Savras when the bedroom’s door closed. She looked at him, waiting for the reveal.

“I need your help,” the Vulcan-Trill started, although his guts tried to knot onto themselves. “My father’s in a stasis chamber at the infirmary and I can’t ask Julian to get him out and let me walk away with him. Seems like he’s a bit more a conspiracy practicer than a theorist, and something must’ve happened recently,” he massaged his forehead. “I’d need Melekor to modify whatever system it takes to in order to beam my father out without keeping any record of his presence, but we’re not on the best terms at the moment. And I’d rather not have to ask his mother to do some Betazoid trick of manipulating the infirmary personnel while Julian’s not in there… Or we could try to draw them out at night, I don’t know…” he looked at her, a bit afraid. “I need you, Savras… I need you to tell me what the shit is going on and where I can get my father to safety.” She had to squint at him, a bit uneasy about his sudden change of heart regarding Jaden.

“I thought you  _ wanted _ him dead,” she told him seriously, crossing her arms over her chest, “What changed your mind?”

“It’s not about him, I still ...don’t forgive him for what he’s done,” he frowned. “It’s about Mynx. And your terrorist friends,” he groaned. “My  _ father _ has undergone symbiosis one hundred and twenty-eight times.  _ One. Hundred. Twenty. Eight. Times. _ And I think you would know why, because he knows you. Or not exactly him, but. One of these people knew you. Mynx flashed images in my mind… She was holding your hands over a cup of raktajino, another cup was shattered on the floor, you were upset… Younger too… ‘ _ Trust in Mirna, one day she’ll understand what they took away from her, _ ’ she said. Who was that?”

“Zidya?” Savras’ face flashed with confused disbelief. Aside from the shock that it meant that Zidya must be dead by now, it didn’t make any sense. “Firstly, Zidya isn’t –  _ wasn’t _ – a terrorist, and secondly – why do you think  _ I _ would know?! I’m just a journalist –  _ and _ I’ve done nothing but try to dissuade these people from acts of terrorism – what you describe is...” she gesticulated, “horrid! I’d never go along knowing something like that without reporting it to the authorities! What kind of  _ cold _ person do you think I am?” Timun looked at her, feeling like he’d hecked up. Melekor hated him, Julian might turn his back on him, and now Savras…

“I… I don’t know,” he stuttered and buried his face against her in case tears would show up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just… Julian must have called the Commission by now, they’re going to come and get my father and… I’ll never see him ever again, right? It’s what I wanted but that was-” he bit his lips and looked away, at the low table. “What will happen to Jabin then? He’ll never be allowed to Join nor to have anything to do with the symbionts. I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m afraid,” he huddled close against her, seeking for comfort and trying, really trying not to cry. “I’m exhausted…!”

“Jabin is his own person,” Savras comforted Timun and held him to rub his back, “They won’t judge him over what his father is guilty of... I think you’re just upset right now. If you decide to help your father – who doesn’t deserve it, by the way – you might just ruin any chance  _ you _ have of ever joining Starfleet. Timun, please, just let this happen – loss happens. We all have people we’re never going to see again, it’s part of life.”

“I held Them in my hands...!” he whimpered. “I never knew it was possible to communicate with a symbiont like this. I never imagined it would feel like this,” he looked up at her. “It was like ...a cat. Like a telepathic connection with a cat who loves you so much but cannot put it into words any translator could ever interpret. It was feelings, sensations, electric currents… Mynx used my own body to express its thoughts. I felt so ...connected. I was one with them for a moment. If this is what symbiosis feels like, the way they describe it simply doesn’t compare to the reality of it… Or maybe this experience was a lot more because Mynx was so… willing. Eager. Social,” he looked down, as if he were still standing in sickbay, looking at the symbiont. “It was so brief, this moment… but it’s like I’m another person now… I don’t know what exactly happened…” he raised his eyes to her again, blinking slowly. “But I know I love you. And I don’t want to lose you,” he nuzzled her. Savras let out a small  _ aww _ and nuzzled him back, then simply leaned on him, to comfort and to be comforted.

She thought that very likely, it had been so special because Mynx already knew Timun. That the symbiont itself enjoyed that togetherness. Still, she didn’t want to phrase it like that, because if she did, he might just go try and Join the symbiont to himself. And that would not only constitute theft of the symbiont, but it would also change Timun – and with that many previous hosts and personalities to separate between, she wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it – Timun Lykes wasn’t the most stable person she knew, and if he got overwhelmed…

“You won’t lose me, I’m coming with you to Cardassia,” she told him, “unless I change my mind, which I might still do.” He chuckled and cried silently at the same time, burying his face in the hollow of her neck.

“That’s great… We’ll be together… What could make me happier than this?” he smiled. He didn’t want to think about visums nor anything anymore. “I’m tired, Savras, I’m so tired…” he closed his eyes. The world could stop for a moment. For just one moment…

“Let’s go sleep,” she patted his back and got up, halfway lifting him from the couch and leading him into the bedroom. There, she helped him get out of his clothes, just so she could tuck him into bed, and then lay down next to him, with the children filling the rest of the available space. It was cramped but it was warm.


	31. Day 27 - I

##  Day 27

 

The docking procedure had been slightly longer than usual as the docking clamps had been acting up a bit since the Levossa damaged them. Still, the ship finally boarded to the station and Tixen went straight to the Promenade. Jaden wasn’t at the Replimat, unsurprisingly, and so she headed to the infirmary, which was the only likely place for him to have ended up in. She wore the deep purple uniform of an official doctor from the Symbiosis Commission, and held herself proud, somewhat strict, but with a polite softness to it. Her dark hair was cut short in a still feminine way, and her deep brown markings – almost aligning in shade with the hair – were still quite visible on her tanned skin.

“I am Doctor Nedjar Ixyn, from the Symbiosis Commission,” she announced herself as she came into the infirmary. “I have come for a medical emergency, on the request of a Joined Trill who was headed to this station. Jaden Mynx. Did he make it and if yes, do you know where he is?”

It was most unfortunate for Tixen that Julian Bashir had an attention to detail and more than enough wits to see the incoherence between Jaden’s refusal to involve the Commission and this one Commission ‘official’ claiming to have been called by him.

“If you’d just wait a moment while I verify your identity with Commission officials through subspace…” he gesticulated to a chair for her to sit on. She complied, taking the opportunity that the communication took a little time to reach destination to inquire about his identity and flatter him on his ‘skillful performance’ in the Verad Dax affair – she did mimic perfectly the fake honeyed tone and smile of Commission officials. Julian nodded but refused to answer any further question, including concerning Mynx, before making sure he was talking to the  _ right _ person.

When the communication reached through however, he had to note that the woman on screen wasn’t the same as the one he’d seen before. It  _ could _ be a different shift, of course, but there were still incoherences and he was starting to have a gut feeling about this all. Had the call been genuine? he had to wonder.

“As this  _ is _ a Federal matter, there are certain things we must clear with commander Sisko first,” he decided to act better safe than sorry. “He’ll be in OPs – if you’ll come with me,” he led the woman out to the Promenade and into the turbolift. As it reached its target level, Julian stepped off the pad and let the woman in Jadzia’s care after a quick introduction (and a most apologetic stare to his friend), then excused himself to go talk to Sisko alone.

Tixen wasn’t too glad about having to get into such procedures, but at least, it gave her crew more time to highjack the systems and try to locate Jaden. So long as the station’s shields weren’t raised, they should have no trouble beaming him away, and her too if necessary. The docking clamps were what worried her most, but hopefully the girls were already figuring out an emergency solution for this. At least, Jadzia Dax was an interesting person to meet. With what she’d gone through, however, Tixen wasn’t sure she’d think of rebels as more than Rogues if she were to learn more about what her group did exactly. Or maybe she’d understand? Either way, suspicions were best avoided altogether, and it was better to have the woman do most of the speaking.

 

In Sisko’s office, the commander was reading some reports while jungling with his favorite baseball ball when Julian entered.

“Doctor Bashir,” he greeted him, quite welcoming the interruption. “Please, take a seat and tell me what’s bringing you here!” he invited him joyfully.

“I would like to have a subspace call I just made from the infirmary be analyzed,” Julian went straight for the point as he sat, “I believe I might have never reached the true respondent, and that whoever I talked to were  _ pretending _ to be an official of the Symbiosis Commission. And that the woman out there,” he made a backwards nod, “is an impostor.”

“The Symbiosis Commission?” Sisko repeated, getting serious at once and straightening up. “What exactly is going on? This has nothing to do with Dax, right?” he set the baseball ball back on its stand.

“No, not Dax. Mynx,” Julian got up and paced a little as he told, “Jaden Mynx had to be beamed to the infirmary urgently, and myself and Doctor Lykes – who is also Jaden’s son – operated on him to save his life. It would seem that Jaden Mynx has been de-Joined and re-Joined five times during the past days, at the hands of some sort of terrorist group. Now, I sent a call to the Symbiosis Commission yesterday night right after we finished the operation and put Mynx in stasis, debriefing them on what had happened, along with a complete medical file. They were going to send someone – but it’s not possible for that someone to have arrived already, nor that they know so little about what happened. So I called the Commission again, but this time I got to talk to someone else, and the call was hurried.” Sisko’s frown increased all through the explanation.

“Five times?” he repeated, shaking his head a bit in discomfort. “Is that a joke, Doctor? Such a thing would be tremendously dangerous for both the host and the symbiont, I believe?” he got up, needing some movement to evacuate the emotions his train of thought was leading him to. “You remember Verad as much as I do, and Jadzia’s condition through all this… And she’s a strong woman. What sort of person would go through such a procedure ...five times?” he questioned, disturbed. Bashir sure did not look like he was joking. “This Jaden Mynx, is his life at risk? And what happened? I don’t think I had the time to read any report about this yet, but the name if familiar. I’m quite sure Odo must have mentioned it to me, or was it Major Kira? Whichever,” he gesticulated a bit and rested himself against his desk. “I need a little more details,” he gazed through the door a little.

“I don’t know exactly what happened, but if you’ll arrange for the subspace communication to be analyzed, I believe that might get us enough information for a confrontation. In the meanwhile, I’ll tell her that Mynx cannot be moved just yet – it gives us enough time to talk to Odo, too.” Sisko nodded.

“We’re going to look into this. It so happens that a pair of women recently arrived to the station, coming from Trill – a Betazoid and a Trill. Their ship was so wrecked we had to send a runabout to tractor them to port. They claimed to have been attacked by another Trillian vessel, but we first assumed it might have been Maquis raiders… Now… I think that makes for a lot of Trills and a lot of problems at the same time. Or is it mere coincidence?” he drummed his fingers against the edge of the desk, then swiftly gestured, “Investigate this communication and report to me, Doctor. If it turns out there’s anything shifty about this, I will want to have a discussion with this woman. Meanwhile, I’ll ask Constable Odo to investigate on all those people. I wouldn’t want to be missing something.”

“Yes sir!” blurted Julian with enthusiasm, “And while I’m at it, I’ll make sure to activate the safety settings for the stasis chambers, I believe there’s a forcefield function there; just in case,” he winked. “I’ll get right to it,” he ended as he turned to leave and carry out his orders.

 

While waiting, Tixen had found a spot that wasn’t much in the way, and from which she could observe the room and glance at the commander’s office, letting Dax resume to her tasks. This rescue mission wasn’t going so well, but the Trill wasn’t going to abandon Mynx yet. A lot was at stake, and she had a pinch at the thought they might go for the survival exit plan. But she smiled when she saw the young doctor come back.

“Did it go well?” she asked with a typical Trill smooth politeness.

“It depends on what you mean by  _ well _ ,” Julian made up as he walked her to the elevator, “I don’t know how much information you have available to you, but the Mynx symbiont is in a critical state, and I can’t risk moving neither host nor symbiont just yet. They will likely stabilize on their own, but moving them right now would be irresponsible. I need to return to the infirmary, but in the meanwhile, there are many facilities aboard that you may frequent – the Bajoran temple-” Tixen threw him bit of an outraged look.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, I  _ understand _ your concerns and your business, but I thought the host and the symbiont were stable. And either way, I would really like to see them,  _ especially _ if they are in a critical state. With all due respect for your title and function as Chief Medical Officer on this station,  _ I _ am the expert in Trill biology and symbiosis. I should already be by Mynx’s side to evaluate the damage and chances of recovery. I don’t have  _ time _ to lose exploring the Promenade when this man might be dying, and along with him, the symbiont.” Hopefully, her crew was getting the message too as Nilam listened to the entire conversation.

“With all due respect, if you had taken the time to actually  _ read _ the report I sent to the Symbiosis Commission, you would’ve known I already  _ have _ a qualified  _ Trillian  _ expert on the case,” Julian sniped back just as quickly, “and you would have also known of Jaden’s and Mynx’s respective states and the delicacy involved here. I hate to be blunt, but perhaps you should just go to the Replimat, have a raktajino, and read the files,” he pointed the direction as they reached the Promenade level.

“Well,  _ sorry _ , doctor, but it so happened we were crossing a plasma storm when we received those orders and while we could get the communication about proper, all the files that were sent to us were absolutely impossible to read due to some damage caused to our transmitter arrays,” Tixen held her temper.

They settled on Julian uploading the medical report to her PADD (with additional ado that Mynx could not be moved for at least two more days) and Tixen left, starting to read while walking – as she nearly bumped into a few persons, it made for a good excuse to exit the Promenade by the nearest turbolift. There, she typed a message for Zidya, to know where were Lykes and Savras’s quarters. The former’s being the closest, she headed there, still giving the report a diagonal reading while the lift sped to destination.

##  * * *

Kilem was the first to be up, and he’d served himself a very luxurious breakfast – chocolate pudding with moba fruit, whipped cream and jumja syrup, followed up by a brim-full glass of cold milk. He’d just about finished his glass when the door chimed, and the very well-fed Cardassian plopped from the chair to go open it to whoever was out there. He had to squint up at the woman, who was standing in the light. She was Trill, just like Savras and Timun, but she looked more formal. He tilted his head in a silent question and she squinted in return. An alien child of some reptilian kind wasn’t exactly what Tixen had expected.

“Excuse me, child; does Timun Lykes reside here at the moment?” she asked. “He is Vulcan-Trill, with tan skin darker than mine, and darker hair too.” Kilem smiled and took the woman’s hand, then led her inside and more or less put her in a free chair, then went to the replicator, got her some chocolate pudding and served her the bowl, after which he sat on his chair again and continued with his milk. Tixen was about to get up when the door of one of the bedroom opened and the young doctor came out, wearing only pants and holding the top he was about to put on. Obviously, he hadn’t expected his guest to be in already. Tixen got up at once, discarding the bowl of chocolate pudding on the table.

“Doctor Lykes, I presume,” she gave him her hand. “I have come here for your father.”

“Well, that was fast,” Timun blinked as he shook her hand. He squinted however, doubts crawling upon him.

“Doctor, there is someone else I would need to meet. I’ve been led to believe Savras Wayan would be here on this station, and that you would happen to know her.”

“And what do you want with her? I thought the Commission wasn’t too fond of her ever since she chose not to be Joined after all,” he straightened up. Tixen nodded.

“That is true, but I would recommend that she doesn’t stay here for too long. She might have been exiled, that doesn’t mean certain persons aren’t interested in her in ways she wouldn’t appreciate.” Now,  _ this _ was getting to be interesting, Kilem thought as he grabbed the pudding Tixen hadn’t eaten. Someone who found it less juicy however was Savras herself, who had gotten into a deep purple nightgown rather hurriedly borrowed from Timun to join the others. She’d expected Ywanna, so she was a bit dumbfounded when it wasn’t her. She wasn’t sure what they had been talking about before her interruption, but they seemed serious – Timun especially seemed dumbstruck, almost unphased.

“Did Jaden’s father – I mean Timun’s doctor – I mean, what’s wrong? Is Mynx...?”

“Ah, Savras,” Tixen sighed in relief, approaching her quickly like a friend. “ _ I had to alter my appearance, it’s me, Tixen, _ ” she murmured to her ear in fear the room might be monitored. “Mynx is still alive, but for some reason I cannot fathom, Doctor Bashir is holding some doubts on my identity even after calling the Commission to verify it-”

“Wait,” Timun interrupted, staring at Savras. “You have been  _ exiled _ !? From Trill!?” Savras stared at Tixen in disbelief. Then at Timun, then at Tixen again. She wasn’t sure what she was the most angry about – that Mynx’s state was connected to Tixen, or that Tixen had spilled something that could’ve very easily remained a secret and out of mind.

“What did you  _ do _ to that poor symbiont...?” she asked in dismay, finally choosing her topics, “Was all that really necessary – is this really what you’re fighting for? Ti...” she groaned and rubbed her forehead, then just sat in the couch. “It’s violence!” she burst out, punching a nearby pillow to make a point.

“I agree, what happened in the last few days  _ was _ violence,” Tixen sighed, “and I wasn’t the one to perform it. I can’t explain everything that happened because I don’t even know all the details, but my group didn’t do this to him. There was a raffle, many were taken. I hoped to keep Jaden out of suspicion, but with what’s going on now… It’s a close tie, Savras. But you must understand, and you too, Timun,” she looked at him as well, “Jaden was consenting to this, and we cared for Mynx. Hadn’t we, such practices wouldn’t have gone unnoticed for thirty five years. Mynx is such a wonderful symbiont… Probably the most social one I have ever met,” she smiled fondly. “But if Doctor Bashir won’t hand Jaden over to me, this is going to put a harsh end to what we’ve been doing.  _ I _ can save them,” she insisted. “I don’t ask you to understand, but I ask you to be careful. The Ra’Shakiin might not be done with you. I believe they’ve spied on you, Savras, and they may want to eliminate you if they think you constitute a threat for the Symbiosis Commission and general order on Trill, even as an exilee,” she told Savras, then turned to Timun again. “And you too should be careful. You’ve certainly saved your father’s life, but Starfleet now has all the suspicions it takes for the Ra’Shakiin to identify him clearly as a rebel…”

“And I guess we’re being careful by having contact with you?” Savras asked sarcastically, glaring up at Tixen. “Why did you even come here? I don’t for a second believe you’re here to deliver just a warning. What is it you want? A new host for Mynx? Jaden doesn’t suit your needs anymore? Too old, too fragile, too something else, hm?”

“Savras, please! It’s not what you think!” Tixen paled. “I’m your friend, I would never ask you such a thing. You might be strong but I’d never do this to you! However, if you want to come with us, now’s the time.”

“She’s coming to Cardassia with us,” Timun glared at the woman. “But since you know so many things, is the Ra’Shakiin a ...secret intelligence?”

“Indeed,” Tixen answered with appreciation. “Have you heard of it?”

“No, but then do you know if Maniel Dalkar is one of them?” Behind him, Glain came out of the other bedroom.

“Talking of Maniel again?” he asked, acting formal though all he wished at the moment was to make a run for the bathroom and control his looks.

“Maniel Dalkar,” Tixen squinted, doing a very good job at ignoring the strange amount of those reptilian aliens in the quarters – Cardassians, she assumed. “Other names?” she asked while Glain made his run.

“Enkilan Devrail, Dezed Nemerin…” Timun listed annoyedly. “But Maniel Dalkar was his real name.” Tixen’s face illuminated.

“Now that is an information I am thankful for. And yes, Dezed is a name we know. He’s from the Ra’Shakiin and we now believe he’s been spying on Savras for years. If you ever meet with him again,  _ kill _ him before  _ he _ kills you. He will. Men who don’t exist don’t fear lawsuits and if he knows you’ve uncovered his true identi-.”

“Get out,” Elem’s voice raised as he burst out of the bedroom, hissing in anger between his teeth, “Get out before I call security. And I  _ will _ call security,” he pointed at the woman. Savras had been on the verge of asking the same thing but was still torn between allegiances. On one hand, she didn’t want to hurt Tixen, on the other, she knew it might get worse for her if she associated further with her previous friends. But mostly, Timun needed closure for his father, and perhaps this was it. Now, her half-Cardassian friend took all that from her hands.

“Not now, you!” Timun glared back at Melekor. “Get back to your room and worry about Cardassia!” he shouted angrily but still took Tixen by the arm and led the way to the door. “I think it’s better if you leave now, and, truly, do your best… But, if he must die, try to save the symbiont and… I hope we can be rejoined someday, so I can understand better…” his throat was starting to hurt.

“We’re far from being done for. We’ve lost a battle, not the war,” Tixen nodded. “I’m sorry… but be careful and  _ beware _ of that man. He’s incredibly smart, cunning, and a very apt killer.” Timun nodded and let her go.

Kilem scraped the last of the chocolate from the bowl and looked at the sad Vulcan-Trill, the closing door. The growing distance between him and his father. He was grateful, in a way, that a part of his parents wasn’t out there somewhere, living inside of someone else. They were gone, and he knew for certain they experienced no pain anymore, nor would they ever. Therefore, he felt a bit sorry for Timun. Not enough to go hug him, however. Savras on her behalf,  _ did _ feel bad enough for Timun to go over to him and wrap her arms around him, hugging him from behind.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” she mumbled into his neck, “it’ll be fine.” Timun clenched his jaws, trying to keep calm and composed, but only managing to get stiff and painful in the throat again. The door of his room opened and Terek and Dziana came in. The little Vulcan girl went to hug Timun’s legs. She and the other one had been eavesdropping with their sharp hearing.

Melekor however retreated back into his room, where he continued to order breakfast for himself, and eat alone.

“I’m proud of you,” Savras rubbed Timun’s chest and buried her nose in his neck, “and of myself too. But I’m also a bit afraid. I didn’t think the Ra’Shakiin was real – at least not in this regard. To think that they might send someone after  _ me? _ All I’ve ever done has been to advocate non-violence to those who really  _ need _ to be advocated to... Why would they want me dead?” Timun looked at her, and honestly wasn’t sure what to even say.

“I don’t know… Until five minutes ago I had never even heard this name. I’d never even suspected such a group might really exist until Glain suggested it when we were on Bajor… But it feels very real now, and if they’re an intelligence then…” he gulped. “Do you think you know too much? And what is too much? It’s not like anyone would believe what we can say…”

“Timun,” Dziana raised her tiny voice. “Is daddy dead?” she asked with tears in her eyes. The Vulcan felt his heart cracking and took her in his arms.

“No, he’s still holding… Dad is strong…”

“I want to see him,” she sniffled, water running down her cheeks. “I want to see him now!” Timun looked at Savras.

“If we interfere now, we  _ will _ be associated with these extremists,” Savras warned Timun, and then set a hand on Dziana’s head, “saying your farewells is a luxury. Sometimes, for the better of the person you know you’ll miss, you should just stay away,” she tried to sound encouraging, despite of how close to home it all hit. “We need breakfast. I suggest oatmeal, it’s bland enough to be inoffensive,” she replicated a big bowl for herself, one for Timun, and two smaller ones for the children who hadn’t yet eaten. Kilem, who had left his chair, assisted them in setting the table, making sure to place Terek beside his own seat.

“Savras is right,” Timun nuzzled his daughter’s head, “and I’m here for you. And mom will always be there for you too, and Jabin-”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong, this is not logical!” she tried to defend her will.

“Kilem and I did nothing wrong either,” Terek said softly, “but we were still orphaned.”

“It was  _ war _ ,” Dziana argued, though she wasn’t entirely sure what war must have been like. She’d never seen it. Terek told of an explosion, and that was all the little Vulcan could imagine. Weapon fire and explosions. Nothing such happened in her own life.

“Sometimes there is a war but it’s invisible,” Timun explained while pouring syrup on his meal. “There are wars going on all the time, but people tend to only acknowledge them when people die from armed conflicts. But wars can be financial, psychological, ideological, social…” he shook his head. “I didn’t really want you to know of those things yet, because it’s scary to think of such things when you live in paradise and can do nothing about them. It’s dangerous, because you can stop caring for those concepts, because they feel unreal… But for those who suffer, it’s very real, and very hard to prove to those who don’t want to believe, who don’t want to care.”

“Do Starfleet and the Federation know about this war?” Dziana asked – Savras however sent Timun a chastising glance: those were things he should keep to himself, not blather about at a table full of  _ children _ .

“If they knew, they’d do something about it,” Savras answered. She wasn’t sure she believed it anymore, though. After all, she’d tried to warn the governing powers about the rising conflict, and as a result they’d had her exiled. Who was to say the Federation wouldn’t rather sweep this under the rug, too? After all, how  _ could  _ there be a war going on in Trill society? Everyone could readily agree that there was no conflict, because the people who were supposedly fighting it didn’t  _ exist. _ Neither opposition nor supposition.

“Wars have to be declared to be legal,” Dziana said factually.

“You know about this?” Timun was surprised. “I actually don’t know if anyone out of Trill knows. There has to be some people who know, but do they care? I don’t know. That’s why I want to join Starfleet, so I can say that at least one person there knows, and maybe one day everything can be exposed. But time hasn’t come yet, and for now, we have to keep clean. That’s what Jaden would want for us. He kept everything secret to protect us,” he smiled. In truth, he had no idea whether it might be true, a lie, or both. Surely, Jaden mostly favored the situation that was most comfortable for himself, but Dziana didn’t need to know of such things yet. She sniffled and tried to eat a little. She didn’t feel hungry even though her stomach twisted for food. She tried though, munching slowly and swallowing. Thinking. What harm was there, really, in letting her see her father when it might be the very last time?

Eventually, the discussion resumed to something more casual, until Terek decided to tell about stories he’d been writing, which were slightly disturbing, Timun thought. Dziana however seemed fascinated enough and prefered to keep on listening, letting Timun and Savras go to the bathroom next after Glain. Melekor soon joined them in (which drove Savras out) to make it very clear to Timun that he was an absolute traitor.

“Maniel Dalkar was my  _ only _ friend,” he hissed at him amongst heated words, “To know that he’s still alive is all I needed – but now? You sold out my only friend, with his real name, stolen from  _ my _ lips... to a terrorist. I’ll never know what will happen to him, if they’ll kill him, how he’ll die, if they’ll torture him first – but I am going to assume the worst. And it’s my fault, for ever trusting  _ you _ . I don’t even hate you,” he spat the words at the other, “I simply will never forgive you.” Timun didn’t even try to defend himself anymore. Anything he would say would fall on deaf ears anyway.

“Good, then, it’s settled,” he swallowed hard. He didn’t add anything more to it as Savras came back in to inform him a bit worriedly that she couldn’t find Dziana. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she isn’t in the quarters. Do you think she might have gone to see Jaden?” she asked as a realization. Timun looked at her, his thoughts clearly written on his face: “ _ Shit. _ ”

##  * * *

The little Vulcan’s legs carried her like wind through the corridor. She bumped into a man who managed to stop her, holding her by the shoulders and asking where she was going like that. Dziana didn’t answer, trying to just wriggle free from him without just breaking his wrist. When he persisted into maintaining her, she went for the neck and disabled him before resuming to her race. On the Promenade she had to avoid the guards who shouted at her not to run – she walked, excusing herself, but only to start running again right after, taking advantage of her small size to squeeze herself and even slide or roll in between people. Somehow, she’d always known parkourdunk trainings with Timun would come handy someday. At last, she reached the infirmary and entered, brushing dust off her clothes, especially the knees.

“Doctor Julian?” she asked, glancing around and catching her breath at last. She was a bit flushed, but also proud to have gone so far.

“Dziana?” the man appeared from behind a counter, frowning a little as he looked around to see where the adult attached to her was, finding none, “You really shouldn’t be wandering off without an adult-”

“I know,” she answered, “but I’m here to see Daddy Jaden,” she said, tears bulging in her voice. She came closer to the man and grabbed the fabric of his pants, looking up at him, jaws and chin twitching a bit. “Please, Doctor Julian, please… He’s my daddy too…” Julian sighed and lifted Dziana to sit her on the medibed, seating himself by her side.

“Jaden is very unwell,” he explained, “We’ve had to put him in a stasis chamber, so he’s unconscious for now. I could pull it out to show you, as the stasis field is really what matters, but it might be a bit scary, and I would need your supervising adult to give me clearance.” She pouted and wiggled her lips a little in an attempt to help contain the emotion through the motion.

“I’m sorry… I just…” She took a deep breath. “Can I at least see the chamber?” she looked up at him again. “I promise I’ll be quiet.” To that, he agreed and led her there.

“Thank you Doctor Julian,” she smiled and went to stick herself against the door, caressing the panel gently and nuzzling it. She pressed with her mind, trying to feel what might be inside, but it seemed vain. Without contact to the body, it didn’t work. Or maybe was it because of the stasis? Either way, she tried not to cry. “I’m going to be strong,” she murmured. “I’ll take good care of Jabin and Timun so they don’t do silly things. I know mom will be strong. We’re women so we’re stronger…” Her voice cracked a little. “I love you daddy… I have Timun but even if he’s my father too… you’ll always be my daddy too!” she broke into tears, wincing as she tried to contain them, whimpering as her throat hurt, pressure increasing  until the sobs escaped her. She clung to the panel still, refusing to let go off it and pressing herself against it.

Julian respected her sorrow, while keeping at a distance – not far enough that she couldn’t reach out to him if she needed comfort. Helping people through the loss of a loved one was never an easy task, but endlessly important nonetheless. Everyone had their own way of grieving, of coping, and children were often overlooked when these processes were considered. Julian, however, had taken special classes in caring for children and their psychological needs, and so, he wasn’t underprepared, offering a silent presence, ready to assist.

Eventually, Timun and Savras arrived – they’d found the unconscious man on their way, which had led them to assume they were on the right track, although reanimating him delayed them a little. The Vulcan-Trill’s heart tightened at the sight of Dziana, kneeled in front of the stasis chamber. He approached Julian, trying to act professional this time.

“I’m sorry… I told her not to but-” he was interrupted as little arms suddenly seized him around the legs.

“Timun, Timun! Doctor Julian said you have to say yes before he can open the chamber. Please… pretty please… Say yes…” she looked up at him.

“Darling, it’s a little scary,” Timun managed to kneel.

“Daddy is  _ not _ scary. I’m not afraid,” Dziana denied.

“He doesn’t look so well, you know… and it’s not like when he’s awake, or sleeping even… He’s very sick…”

“I’ll wash my hands very carefully so he doesn’t get more sick,” she ensured stubbornly. “Last time I saw him he was  _ very _ sick and in pain… Please… I want to see he’s calm now…” her lips started to tremble again. Timun sighed and looked up Julian.

“What do you think, Doctor? Can we do this?” he preferred to ask. “It’s your infirmary, I’ll understand any decision you favor taking.”

“I can open the capsule and  _ show _ him to you, but I’m afraid I can’t afford to lower the forcefield surrounding him. Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked the child again.

Dziana answered a bold “Yes, he’s my dad, and I’m a girl. I’m stronger than all of you! ...Except Savras. For now,” she sniffled. Timun smiled weakly and shook his head.

“Not very long then,” he sighed. “Doctor…”

He let him open the chamber and reveal the body. The sight of his father, so weak, small and vulnerable, shocked him a bit more than he expected as he came closer with Dziana and Savras. His strong women… True, he felt so much weaker than them both, and squeezed his girlfriend’s hand tight in his own to draw strength from her. He rubbed his daughter’s shoulder too, with his thumb, trying to feel what she felt. Emptiness.

“Dzi?”

“He doesn’t look like he’s suffering… he’s going to live, right?” she looked at him.

“I don’t know… It’s all up to the Commission. They might have to pass Mynx onto a new host…”

“Then dad will live through this new person, right? And we can meet them? I hope it’d be a woman,” she said in sheer innocence.

“If it happens, we can’t see Mynx again, darling. It’s forbidden… We have to let them go. Both of them. Jaden and Mynx… It stops there and it’s better for us this way. We have to let the next host live their life, you understand? Symbionts aren’t meant to have us bypass death.” She nodded slowly and approached a little closer.

“I love you dad… I hope you become a beautiful woman nex-” Before she could end the sentence, the forcefield suddenly disappeared and the body dematerialized, causing the girl to startle back, screaming in surprise. Timun stared in horror and soon touched the bed, then looked around, aghast, as if trying to find where the energy had gone.

“Where!? Who beamed him!?” he looked at Julian, who had already hit his combadge to contact OP’s.

“Someone deactivated the forcefield surrounding Jaden Mynx’s stasis chamber and beamed him away. Can you figure out where? My guess would be Ixyn’s Trillian ship.”

“Dax to Bashir, I confirm suspicions. They raised their shields at once but they won’t go far while the docking clamps aren’t released. Still, report to OP’s at once,” she ordered him.

“On my way,” he answered. He glanced at the three others and hit his combadge once more, “Bashir to Odo, send someone to take Timun Lykes and Savras Wayan to detention. There is a young child too,” he requested. “I’m sorry-”

“You do your job, Doctor,” Timun just sat on the bed, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s so alike of my father! He can’t even  _ die _ without putting us in troubles!” he smacked his lap.

 

In OP’s, the situation was a lot more heated already.

“They’re declamping!” Kira shouted, smacking the computer panel with frustration. “How is that possible!? Chief, what happened!?” she addressed him through communications.

“I’m not sure yet but we’re not letting that happen! If they’ve damaged those clamps again…” O’Brien groaned for answer.

“Major!” Dax interrupted, “I’m detecting a shuttle, the size of a runabout. I think the entire crew of the Derenyx might be aboard. They’re preparing for warp.”

“Lock the tractor beam on them!” the Bajoran shouted at once. “Onscreen!”

“Major,” an ensign raised her voice a little, “the Ktarian freighter’s captain is hailing again, he’s asking why the docking clamps aren’t opened yet.”

“What do I know!? Tell them to stand by while we’re conducting this operation, I  _ don’t _ want them in the way! And chief, what’s wrong with those docking clamps!?” she contacted him again, but only to hear him repeating the same question with more expletives. She shook her head and smiled at the screen when the Trillian shuttle was stopped in its course by the tractor beam. “Hail them,” she clapped her hands.

A moment after, the ensign shook her head. “They’re denying our hails, major.”

“Then let’s bring them here,” Kira set her hands on her hips. “Dax?” The Trill frowned.

“There’s some kind of jamming along with those shields, I’m not reading the lifeforms inside very well… That’s strange.”

“Major, the Ktarian ship is about to go to-” the ensign stared at her screen. “They’ve gone into warp.”

“What?” the major threw her a look. “Which coordinates?” she approached to see for herself. On the level above, Sisko turned to Dax.

“Old man, scan the Derenyx for lifeforms,” he required, suspicious.

“Shields are down. I read a crew,” the woman confirmed. “I bet they’re Ktarians…”

“They’re hailing us,” the ensign added.

“Onscreen,” Sisko straightened up, hands locked in his back, soon facing a half-angry, half-confused Ktarian captain.

“ _ Can someone explain why my entire crew has been beamed on… _ ” he looked around, “ _...this ship? All I wanted was for those docking clamps to be opened! Send us back to our ship at once! I have a full cargo to deliver! _ ”

“I’m afraid we might not be able to do this,” Sisko announced. “It would appear that your ship has just been borrowed, but you have my promise that we will do all that is in our power to recover it, along with your cargo. But you will certainly be late for this delivery.”

“ _ What!? My ship!? _ ” the man couldn’t seem to decide whether he was more scandalized, shocked, outraged or demoralized. “ _ My ship! _ ” he repeated.

“Please, don’t move, we’re sending a team your way,” Sisko shifted on place a bit. This was a most disappointing situation for everybody.

The freighter’s captain looked at the people appearing out of thin air in the background, then back at the screen. “ _ Well. It looks like your team has already arrived… What’s happening here? _ ” he blinked and moved a bit as a Bajoran security officer approached. “ _ Well, then, end transmission, _ ” he blubbered.

Sisko shook his head and hit his combadge, “Constable, what do we have?” he turned around to see Julian exiting the turbolift.

“ _ Almost two Trills in custody if I add up the percentages, _ ” the shapeshifter answered. “ _ I have Miss Savras Wayan, who so happens to have been recently exiled from the Trill homeworld- _ ” The commander held up his hand (although Odo couldn’t possibly see the gesture).

“Exiled, for which reason?”

“ _ I don’t have all the details yet, but it might have to do with underground activities from what I know of her… recent circumstances. It wasn’t very clear, but she did have a political career that ended with a punch; Miss Wayan would seem to be an adept of Klingon martial arts, _ ” the Constable briefed.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s violent and dangerous,” Dax felt the need to point out. Sisko nodded.

“Let’s not judge on the appearances, I want a more thorough profiling. What about the others?”

“ _ Well, we also have Doctor Timun Lykes  _ **_again_ ** _ , _ ” – Odo didn’t really hide what he thought of the doctor’s habit for ending up in detention – “ _ and Dziana Lykes, only eight years old, but already quite alike the rest of the family, _ ” he groaned. “ _ She confessed having knocked a Bajoran man unconscious in the Habitat ring, using the Vulcan neck grip. She insisted to stay with her ah… to be in the cell with the others, _ ” he simplified.

“Vulcan neck grip at eight,” Dax acknowledged, “that’s pretty good. I mean-” she cleared her throat a bit. “I’m still reading lifeforms in the shuttle but I’m about certain the signal is only fooling our sensors. Still, it would be interesting to investigate.”

“Alright,” Sisko agreed with a booming voice, ready to state his orders. “I want to know exactly who is guilty of what and what exactly happened,” he spoke each word very distinctly, with emphasis to almost all of them. “I want to know how that forcefield failed, how they fooled our sensors, and everything to do with those docking clamps! And interrogate the entire Ktarian crew. I want all the data concerning their transport, their itinerary, their contracts,  _ everything _ . For all we know, they may not be victims but also accomplices. And of course, I want their freighter searched and found; send an alert to all nearby Federation ships and transmit the last known trajectory coordinates. Doctor,” he turned to Julian, “I’ll need your complete report. Make it thorough. The Symbiosis Commission will be reading every letter of it.” He turned around and strode toward his office. He had to make a call, and it wasn’t going to be anything pleasant. Dax moved a bit as everybody got back to their duty, looking at Julian.

“Is it going to be alright?”

“I hope so,” Julian told her, still a bit shaken, “that little girl had to watch her dying father get abducted right in front of her eyes. I can’t help but to feel guilty, somehow,” he smiled a little and shook his head. “All I can do now, is to make sure that things will be alright,” he smiled at Jadzia. “I can’t help but to wonder, though, do you think it’s possible that this was the act of organized terrorists? The entire operation, from start to finish, was incredibly smooth. It doesn’t strike me as just a kidnapping.” Jadzia tilted her head.

“One year ago, I would have told you ‘ _ Julian, you read too much of those novels Garak fills your head with; Trill is a peaceful world, those are but conspiracy theories. _ ’ But since Verad…” she put a hand on her abdomen, feeling the slim seam of her pouch through the cloth. “There is an after,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t go as far as to believe there would be organized terrorists targeting something special on Trill, but maybe they have a cause somewhere, like the Maquis does. And maybe this man is one of their agents. Then again,” she sighed and turned over her console, “Odo told us earlier that Mynx has been around the station a lot, but I’ve never met him myself. I suppose we’ll have better answers soon,” she smiled and glanced at the doctor. “Let’s not let our imagination run too wild yet; it’s tempting, but it’s a bit early.” Julian nodded a bit, thinking about things rather absently for a moment. Then, he shook his head and fired another smile at Jadzia.

“You’re right, let’s not let our imagine run too wild yet. And actually, Cardassians don’t have conspiracy theory novels – I’m the one to fill Garak’s head with them,” he grinned. “I’d better go write that report,” he went to the turbolift, then nodded a little, “I’ll see you later!” the elevator whisked him away.

##  * * *

Garak was quite pleased with the work he’d accomplished so far. He’d finally cared to finish  _ Elem’s _ order, which he had delayed for reasons he did  not want to fathom. Glain’s dress had been oddly fast to prepare and was ready for a first try before getting it adjusted to fit perfectly. Meanwhile, he relaxed himself by cutting the fabric he’d just received to tailor the little Vulcan’s outfit. He was cutting the last piece when the Cardassian brothers came in.

“Ah, you arrive just in time!” he greeted them. Then he realized they weren’t alone and looked at the smaller samples of Cardassians following them. “You… brought souvenirs from the resettlement center?” he asked, his blue eyes moving fast between them all.

“Glain couldn’t help himself,” Melekor explained before his brother could say anything at all. “This is Kilem, he patted Kilem’s shoulder, and the boy instantly recoiled to glare at him, too, “and Terek,” he indicated Terek with just a gesture, in case Terek was going to be as cranky with him as Kilem now was.

“Nice to meet you,” the tailor acknowledged the children but moved to the shelf on which he placed finished orders. “I have a set of work clothes for you, Kel,” he took the uniform and brought it to his customer, neatly folded. “I hope it’ll give you entire satisfaction –” by the look on the customer’s face, it did already. “And as for you, Rokat-”

“Later,” Glain cut. Then nudged his brother. “You tell him,” he said quickly and stepped back.

“Uhm, yes,” Melekor re-folded the clothes he’d just gotten and laid them over his arm, “first of all, I know this is inconvenient to you, and will take up valuable hours of your time and cost you in effort, and I really wouldn’t ask if I thought there were any other options. You see,” he cleared his throat, “Lykes and myself are... not on good terms. The kind of bad terms that rule out having children around. I was wondering if you could help out by taking care of them for a couple of days, until the conflict blows over?” He weighed back and forth on his feet, “If you do, I’ll tell you the  _ real _ reason, and perhaps more.” Garak listened, glancing between Melekor and the kids. Then at Glain too, wondering if he was included in the lot, considering he stood with them.

“When you say children, you mean only those two, right?” he pointed at Kilem and Terek, squinting. “I… I am a  _ tailor _ , not a housekeeper,” he snorted, passing his feelings as slightly offended to hide the mild panic. One one hand, he was curious. On the other hand, would the cat find satisfaction worth the kill? “Mister Kel,” he passed his arm around his shoulders to drag him further into the shop, out of normal Cardassian earshot, “are you asking me to keep them in  _ my _ quarters?” he asked in a whisper. “I think you already know they aren’t exactly accommodated to receive guests in any way, and that is for a reason: I usually do not have guests,” he looked at him, waiting for more of a tease.

“I believe an old friend might pay me a visit soon-” Melekor told Garak vaguely, and then passed him the choir practice jacket, with the stab holes well visible, “-under circumstances less than stellar. I need for the children not to be there, so I can deal with this reunion in a fitting manner; I’ll have messages to deliver. Warnings too. While I believe some wounds might heal, I do not believe he’ll be as overjoyed to see me as I will be seeing him.” The spy’s senses were tingling in all manners of interest, already starting to weave connections with the events of the last days.

“Well, I suppose I have to accept then… But I expect you’ll take the greatest of precautions,” he said seriously. “One last question however. Am I allowed to put them either in an airlock or in the Bajoran temple if they misbehave?” he gestured at the kids. “Or do you feel that giving them the choice to select the punishment they prefer is too much freedom? Freedom can be terrifying for children, and I wouldn’t want to scare them…” he tapped his chin with concern.

“As long as they don’t start wrestling, they tend to be well-behaved. But, I’d rather you put them in the temple than the airlock. I don’t want them to end up developing some kind of phobia for airlocks, could you imagine how impractical that would be?” Melekor shook his head a little, but was smirking all along, “Either way, thank you Garak, I’ll be sure to repay you in full. Glain?” he looked over his shoulder, then waved his brother closer to have him hand over the children. Somehow, Glain was having a bit of a difficulty to let them go, instead clinging to their shoulders, protectively. He took a breath and walked forth, guiding them toward the tailor.

“I’ll come back a bit later for my order. Just… be nice to them.”

“Of course. And Glain… take care too,” Garak replied more seriously. “I’m afraid you’re still not suited for what you’re getting yourself into. Be careful.” The archivist hmphed and squatted to look at the kids.

“Be good, you two. And don’t believe anything Garak tells you; he’s as full of lies as his shop is full of dresses.”

##  * * *

Hadn’t Odo been a shapeshifter, he’d likely suffer from those  _ headaches _ Major Kira often complained about in frustrating situations. The closest to it that he experienced was a nagging annoyance at how loose ends weren’t lining up in a satisfactory manner. The case was a mismatch of patterns, not to mention a  _ Trillian _ matter. And Trill security was as efficient as it was frustrating to work with. First, he’d received word they’d send someone from their own department of Justice to assist the Bajoran security team,  _ then _ they called fourteen minutes later and rebuked that offer, saying that Starfleet would act on their behalf, and  _ then _ they made a third call, to rebuke that too; a former Trill security officer, Lemia Ryx, who were now serving in Starfleet, was going to arrive at the station to help,  _ after _ her ship, which was currently tracking the lost ship, had arrived to the station safely – within approximately seven hours. And then they ended the call with giving Odo strict instructions  _ not  _ to start any interrogations or hearings before such a time that their legal representative had arrived by his side. The fact that he was holding three likely innocent witnesses in custody, of which one was a child, didn’t make any difference to them. He was supposed to let them sit in there for  _ at least  _ seven hours during which, he was sure, their immediate memories would fade and get distorted. To make matters worse, Sisko too told him to wait for the Trill’s chosen representative, as he was dealing with the delicate situation of having to please the Symbiosis Commission after this disastrous failure.

Odo was not very happy. One might even say, he was getting a headache. Figuratively speaking. 

“I am afraid you three will have to spend the rest of the day in here,” he was undelighted to tell them as he popped in, carrying a small tray. He’d placed his three prisoners in the same cell he’d held Lykes every time before; a meager comfort, and maybe a reward too; Dziana Lykes  _ had _ spontaneously told of the Bajoran man she’d knocked out, prompting the adults to expand on how they’d found him, provided care and even invited him to press charges if he wanted to – which he hadn’t, so far. “I thought you might be hungry, so I replicated these,” Odo disabled the forcefield, set the tray on the floor, and activated the forcefield again. What serving he’d picked was the only Trillian dish popular with children that he’d managed to wrangle out of the replicator, and he wasn’t even sure it was any good, because he didn’t have any tastebuds.

“Are we locked up because of me?” Dziana asked.

“No, probably not,” Timun patted her hair. “We’ll probably get released when everything’s cleared up; serve yourself, rather,” he gestured at the tray, then looked back at Odo. “I soon have to return her to her mother, on Trill and, if we’re going to be in here for so long, would it be possible to at least have her PADD, so we can repass the school lessons she’s supposed to be following on distance? Or to have a game of… kotra? You’d like to play that one?” he asked her to check.

“Glain is very good at it, it’s a nice game,” the little girl answered while giving Savras a plate. “I like Glain,” she added factually.

“I’m afraid I can’t let my detainees have any medium of entertainment in here... I’d stretch the regulations if we weren’t dealing with such a serious situation,” Odo gave a sorry expression, or at least he tried to, “The Trillian Justice Department has requested that no statements are to be taken until their chosen representative can arrive at the station – which she won’t for at least another seven hours. I hope the food is pleasant,” he commented instead and withdrew himself.

“I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t get to talk more to Glain,” Savras chose to comment, “he’s very cute, isn’t he?” she added teasingly to Timun, even though she wasn’t  _ truly _ in the mood for joking around.

“He is,” Timun smiled weakly, accepting his serving from Dziana – a plate of mash and meatballs with forest berry jam to add a bit of sour-sweetness to the salty-bland meal. It wasn’t bad, and it was actually a welcome type of food in this moment. “Hey, Dzi, we build a castle?” he suggested, starting to shape the mash in a donut shape on which he placed the small meatballs to make walls and towers.

“You’re a child,” the little girl chastised him.

“So are you, and I’m having fun…” he encouraged. She shook her head and sighed, but started to do the same. He snickered and gave Savras a better smile. “I wish I’d warned station security right after I put that woman out of our quarters. I… I should have, right?”

“ _ We _ should have,” Savras corrected him, while studying her meal and contemplating whether she’d join the challenge or not. “I think we were all a bit shocked. Especially with Melekor getting so aggressive all of a sudden. I didn’t exactly expect that of him,” she admitted as she tread her knife through one of her meatballs and nibbled off of it.

“There are a lot of things you wouldn’t expect of him,” Timun slipped again. “And he was very shocked too after all. Since he came here he’s discovered his father is still alive, fallen in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same for him, was found to be intersexed and that his own mother had him altered at birth to look like a ‘ _normal_ ’ male, _which is a crime_ – but only in Federation space – and oh, yes, he met his brother, considered committing suicide and learned that his very best friend isn’t dead after all, but a secret agent of that Ra’Shakiin thing who will likely have to-” he cough at that moment and set his plate aside to get up and try to get the Constable’s attention. Unfortunately, Odo was already gone to interview an entire crew of Ktarians, and a simple Bajoran deputy came to listen to Timun’s story of Maniel, the day it snowed on the Promenade, the Ra’Shakiin and Melekor among other gruesome things like a possible murder attempt on a Cardassian. She sighed and rolled her eyes in a _cool-story-bro_ kind of way, then walked back to the door.

“I hear so many stories in here, you wouldn’t believe – and you’ve gotta make up something better than that to convince me,” she told him flippantly, “but rest assured that your Cardassian roommates will also have to be questioned.” She  _ did _ like cornering them in a game they’d played the upper hand in for so many years.

And as luck would have it, one of them even delivered himself on his own. Glain Rokat, it was. He and Elem had gone to the infirmary for a refill of phelenaxinide and learned of the haul, which finished to convince the engineer that his old friend  _ would _ pay him a visit. Glain let him get back to their quarters to start booby-trapping them according to his plan – which Glain didn’t entirely approve of, and approved even less when the Bajoran deputy decided to put him in a holding cell. Glain tensed as he vividly remembered his last stay in such a cell, as a fourteen-year old waiting for the trial following his suicide attempt; but he decided not to resist the abusive arrest rather than risk to cause the deputy to also decide to investigate what his brother must be doing inside the quarters’ bulkheads. Once sat in the cell opposite to the others, they managed to give him a breakdown of the situation: Timun’s father became sparkles, it would take fifty years before a Trill official arrived, and the best was that nobody had anything worth declaring about the entire situation.


	32. Day 27 - II

Lieutenant Ryx debriefed with Odo for a full hour before they agreed to continue onto the hearings; the lost ship had been tractored to the station, and a joint Starfleet-Bajoran crew was searching it through for clues. They had found it adrift close to the Badlands; abandoned for a more capable vessel, no doubt. There had been no traces to follow from there, which was a little odd, since most ship engines would’ve left a trail.

“They might have still been there, albeit cloaked,” Odo suggested.

“Maybe. But we were thorough, and there aren’t supposed to  _ be _ any cloaking devices on civil ships, it’s protected technology.” From there on, they left the wardroom and took the turbolift together to Odo’s office.

“I’d like to hear them one at a time, preferably in private,” Ryx eventually requested, much to the shapeshifter’s disapproval.

“This is a joint operation.”

“It is a Trillian matter.”

“Need I remind you, Lieutenant, that this crime took place on a Bajoran station? Of which  _ I _ am the highest governing security personnel?”

Ryx sighed. “One of your detainees is an ex-citizen to Trill, and I have been specifically instructed to hear her separately, no audience. Some of the questions are extremely sensitive, and the Symbiosis Commission feels it would be improper to involve external observers – I am sorry, Constable Odo; as an official representative, my hands are tied in ways that aren’t so easy to undo.” Odo harrumphed.

“I am not sure how your Commission can expect us to solve this together, if they insist on closing out one of the vital parts.” A smile passed Ryx’s thin, rose pink lips, and she looked down at her feet.

“My guess is that they  _ don’t _ want to solve this altogether, but you didn’t hear that from me,” she winked at him. “I’ll let you assist me in the first half of the hearing, and then I will have my questions asked in private and off the record as far as Bajoran and Starfleet data is concerned – that is all I can do for you, Mister Odo.” The shapeshifter wasn’t satisfied, but obliged.

“We’ll use my office. Who would you like to start with?” he asked as they entered the room.

“Show me a list of the witnesses again-” Ryx asked, and Odo opened the separate files for her on his desk, “-I’ll start with Timun Lykes, as he both has a child with him, and is the one closest tied to the case.” Odo nodded at that and left to get Timun.

“You’re first,” he told him as he deactivated the forcefield.

“Good luck,” Savras patted his arm, “and if you never return, we’ll remember you fondly,” she promised and blew a kiss after him.

 

Back in Odo’s office, Ryx had taken the liberty of sitting in Odo’s chair, and when the witness came in, she pinned him to the seat in front of her with her cold, grey eyes. Timun looked back at her, uncomfortable and wondering if she was the one Lemia Ryx Melekor had mentioned. The one who used to bully him as a child. The one who had joined Starfleet when he was left without much of a better opportunity but to work on the Levossa with Savras. He cared not to ask, and instead had to go through the unfortunate task of telling her of all that had happened in the previous 26 hours. He had to think about it – he told of the return from Bajor, where he’d been giving medical checkups to the children of the Bajoran orphanage and followed up with the reunion with Savras, and then his father. The operation. Sleep at last, and the weird morning, with the woman. Dziana’s escape, what happened at the infirmary, and how it’d been tedious to care for the little girl while in that detention cell. Ryx didn’t betray any emotions as she recorded his words, then she turned to Odo.

“I presume you have security cameras in the corridor outside Mister Lykes’ quarters?”

“Ah, that is correct, but...” Odo sighed, “they’ve been broken all week, and the repair teams have been busy with more vital tasks.” Ryx stared at him in disbelief.

“That’s fine, you’ll just have to get me the data from the connecting corridors around the time,” she turned back to Lykes.

“I know the official reports state that this is a case of abduction, but as all we’ve seen is a man getting beamed away, I’d like to relabel this case as a potential homicide –” Odo reacted a bit in the background, but didn’t protest – “after all, he could’ve been beamed into a hostile enough environment to kill him. Mister Odo, I’d like you to request running a sensor sweep of the surrounding space, to accommodate for any presence of biological matter.” Timun looked at her in complete disbelief –  _ who _ in their sane mind would go through the hassle of hacking through forecefields to beam a dying man in a ‘hostile environment’ as a mean to kill him!? Then he understood; it was all a cover up, not a real investigation, and so he went onto answering a ridiculously long series of questions about all of Jaden’s relatives and friends that Timun knew of, what their relationship with him was like and what Timun thought they thought of him… It went on tangents about the reason of his mother’s exile from Vulcan, her romantic involvement with another woman, Azrija Sylix, and the arrangement the two of them made with Jaden – Nysar refused to divorce and expose the children to drama, and Azrija was fine living in her own home most of the time. It kept the family functional and everybody found satisfaction this way. There, Ryx decided to have him expand on how much of a scoundrel Jaden was, but Timun had to disappoint, keeping vague because he truly didn’t know much anything of his father’s activities. About one hour and a half through the hearing, just as he was starting to find the entire procedure outrageous (with special concern for Dziana), a sound from the comm system interrupted him and Odo had to answer.

“ _ Is it true you put a Cardassian citizen in a holding cell? _ ” Sisko didn’t sound very happy.

“The deputy on duty might have; she said he was disrupting order.”

“ _ I don’t care  _ **_what_ ** _ she said he did; see to it that he’s released immediately. I just had to exchange pleasantries with  _ **_Dukat_ ** _. _ ”

“But commander, if he broke station-”

“ _ Release him, Constable. Bajor is having a hard enough time settling into peace times with Cardassia as it is. _ ”

“As you wish. Odo out,” he rolled his eyes, “I take it we are done here?” he asked Ryx, she nodded.

“I’ll take the Cardassian next, since he’s in a hurry. Wouldn’t want to upset Mister Dukat more than necessary.” She smirked though, “Lykes, you’re free to go. I’ll have Odo call you as soon as your daughter’s hearing begins. I can’t let you be present during it, but I don’t think it’ll take long.” Needless to say, Timun wasn’t happy with this at all, but he wasn’t let much of a choice but to comply. Odo headed into the detention hall again, then walked over to the Cardassian, releasing the forcefield.

“Rokat, you’re with me,” he gestured for him to get out; it was almost a theatrical bow.

“I want to land a complaint against the female deputy who detained us,” was the first thing Glain had to say. “She has abused her power in an outraging number of ways, none of which is tolerable.”

“She’ll be dealt with accordingly, I assure you,” Odo murmured as he led Glain to the next room. There, Ryx offered the Cardassian a polite smile and made a sweeping gesture towards the chair.

“I have nothing to declare,” Glain told, refusing to sit, and standing straight up. “I am a Cardassian citizen. I have committed no offense, and I do not care who is responsible for my unjustified incarceration so long as they are punished. I have not been read my rights and I do not intend on collaborating with any sort of organization, be they Federal or Bajoran, prior to receiving clearance to do so from Central Command.” The Lieutenant nodded.

“I expected as much, and frankly, I’m surprised you were detained at all. As it turns out, Central Command doesn’t agree with your detention – Commander Sisko just got a call from Gul Dukat. I think he was angry,” she made an o shape with her lips, then leaned back in her chair, “I’ll let you go... I just have an off-the-record entirely-personal question first; is it true you are Melekor Kel’s brother?” Glain shook his head negatively and laughed.

“No, of course not! But it is a lot more convenient for us to pretend so here. It makes us seem more normal and relatable. We’re not sadist guls trying to re-enact the Occupation. We’re just ...brothers,” he smiled acidly. He was tempted to ask if she used to bully a half-Cardassian kid but didn’t, instead striding out of the office and letting Odo and Ryx go on with their business, molesting poor innocent civilians with questions they had no good answers for.

He would later have a warm thought for Dziana upon learning that the little girl stopped cooperating when Ryx insisted that the Ra’Shakiin was nothing but a fairy tale – according to the lieutenant, the ancient taskforce sworn to help maintain peace and order for the State that had been disbanded for over a millenia. Dziana did not appreciate to be infantilized as a way to discredit her very honest testimony. “If you just dismiss it as a fairy tale, then I’m not sure why you are interrogating us. Your behavior is a bit illogical to me,” was all she had to answer to this. Ryx’s smile turned wry and she put an end to the hearing.

##  * * *

Glain had allowed himself a stop by one of the public bathrooms and spent a little time combing his hair in front of the mirror – of course, a Bajoran man had to come in and gawk at the vain Cardassian, but Glain chose not to react – at least, he looked good and felt good about himself. He headed to the Replimat to get a cup of tea and one of those egg sammiches he’d seen on the menu, and called Elem to update him about whereto he’d disappeared all that time – his brother appeared to have lost notion of time and had not exactly realized he should maybe have worried about Glain’s absence.

“I’ll check on the kids and Garak,” the archivist groaned. Having eaten faster than usual, he hurried a little to the Clothier, where he had the greatest displeasure to be welcomed by Terek who eagerly told him that  _ his father was on subspace _ . And he was very angry too. The archivist’s expression melted at once in something dread and horrified.

“You called Gul Dukat and you called him!” he shouted at Garak, accusatively.

“Believe me, I did no such thing,” Garak defended himself, hands raised in front of him. “Dukat is the  _ last _ person I would ever call. However  _ he _ has contacts on the station who report to him.” Well, that was credible, considering Garak did kill Skrain Dukat’s good friend, so Glain dropped the accusation (but he could tell the tailor was extremely angry beyond his composure). “Now come here and talk to your father instead,” Garak ordered.

“I want to do it in my quarters,” the young man gulped.

“No. That demand is rejected. Now you’ll come,” the tailor answered, adamant in his tone and entire body language.

“Is it an encrypted call? And did you tell him about the children?” Glain asked weakly as he approached the screen in the workshop, appreciating that the communication was paused.

“Of course it is encrypted, and no. Not exactly. But he  _ noticed _ their presence.”

Sheepish, Glain approached the computer and turned on the display. Nall did look angry. Exhausted too.

“Father,” Glain said, trying to keep composed, “I  _ know _ this seems like a terrible situation, but I couldn’t tell anyone about what I was going to do-”

“What were you thinking?!” Nall cut off, leaning forward towards the monitor, bolts of white-hot anger glistening in his eyes, “You went  _ against my wishes _ , alone – the Central Command  _ chewed me out for four hours _ , and your mother...! I’ve been trying to contact you – I’m so disappointed with you. Oh, don’t give me that look, you know exactly what you’ve done – what did you do?  _ In detention! _ And where is my  _ other…? _ You went there to bully him out of coming here, didn’t you? I don’t even know  _ what _ to say to you – you betrayed me!  _ And your mother! _ Representatives of the State knocking on  _ my door _ questioning  _ me _ – in front of  _ her! _ She nearly died! I was so worried for you, I’ve been trying to contact you – you’re getting demoted – and I had to apologize personally to  _ Gul Dukat _ for putting him through all of this. How could you do this to me?” He had to stop, because he was out of breath, and his chest was pinching oddly again, which prompted him to lay a hand over it as he leaned back, death-glaring at his son. Glain had shrunk on his chair more and more with each word, feeling like icy blades were being slowly sunk into his body. Still, he had to defend himself against the accusations.

“I did  _ not _ go against your wishes, Father,” he replied quite boldly, considering the situation. “You told me to give Melekor a chance, and I  _ did _ . I’ve been taking care of him, and I  _ assure you _ ,” he puffed himself some more, “everything I’ve lost due to this  _ error _ of handling from that idiotic Bajoran deputy, I will  _ regain _ . I went to Bajor and I learned  _ things _ . And I have done nothing wrong. We’ve only been detained because we are Cardassians and so happened to share quarters with someone whose father disappeared under strange circumstances that have absolutely nothing to do with us. It was pure Bajoran racism, and I will see that everybody who has wronged me comes to regret it!” anger flared in him. He stared at his father, not yet realizing how stark and threatening he looked; almost a different person entirely, and a lot more reminiscent of his own grandfather in his moody days. “Do you wish to discuss the circumstances under which I should bring Melekor to Carda-”

“You will do  _ nothing! _ ” Nall barked back, marking each word with a slam against the chair’s armrests, “You will come home, resume your duties, and make  _ no _ mess.  _ I _ demoted you,” he specified coldly, “and you’ll only regain rank if  _ I _ say you may,” then he calmed a little and looked at his son with more concern, “They... eh... they didn’t hurt you, did they? The Bajorans, I mean. I- I – what  _ AN IDEA! _ To go  _ ALL ALONE! _ You’re just  _ a CHILD! _ A bit grown up yes, but you’re so frail and your scales are still thin and subtle and- and- and- what’s he like?” he asked finally, after he’d searched for word, “Melekor. What does he look like, what’s he like? Do you think he’ll fit into society? Are there any surgical alterations we have to consider to make him blend in better?”

“He looks very Cardassian, only with very black eyes,” Glain answered cooly, trying to ignore his outrage at being infantilized like that (in earshot of Garak, no less). “But there will be surgery to be done. Father…” he softened. “That woman… The Betazoid… She did so many horrible things to him,” he said with caution. “I’m taking good care of him, and I assure you… we’re going to come to Cardassia and everything will be fine.” He wet his lips before revealing, “Melekor has female organs inside, Father. But his mother had his outside altered at birth to make him look male. He’s still taking testosterone and has developed like a male, but he is willing to take the role of a female when he comes,” he told very gently. Nall’s expression shifted, though not to something pleasant; his features were distorted by a mask of disgust.

“She did  _ what? _ What kind of  _ monster _ ...” he took a deep breath, “This complicates things. I’m not sure she’ll cooperate if it means she’ll be sentenced to death – and I  _ need _ her to cooperate,” he groaned and rubbed his lips, then fired up again. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you!” he burst out, pointing a finger at Glain, “You’ll be living  _ with the housekeeper _ when you return, and you’ll keep on living there until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson. I must be a terrible father,” he recognized bitterly, “My own only child doesn’t even listen to me when I give a direct order... I’ve been too soft.” Garak tried not to look at the expression of shame painted on Glain’s face, but it was hard to ignore.

“ _ If I may _ ,” he finally decided to waltz behind the young man and faced the father, “I do not think she will cooperate so easily, and you may not want to risk anything with her. She’s not the person you think, Rokat. She’s extremely dangerous and she will not cooperate.” Nall looked at Garak with the same annoyance he served his son.

“ _ Nilan- _ I mean,  _ Garak _ , don’t you have anything better to do than to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” he accused him, “Go take care of your kids, or something!” he hadn’t meant to be so dismissive, and instantly regretted it, which showed in slumped shoulders, “I’m sorry... but not for  _ you _ ,” he pointed at Glain and then rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair vehemently. “Glinn Reyal is going to have a field day with all of this.”

Glain let out a “Ha!” at that last comment.

“Father. Reyal is good as dead. I told you. I went to Bajor. I have  _ everything _ . And those children are not Garak’s. You wanted grandchildren, didn’t you?” he smiled brightly. Nall was unamused on all fronts.

“That is extremely dangerous, the more you have on him, the greater his motive for getting rid of you – you’re more vulnerable than ever and – what do you mean? Are those Melekor’s children?” He looked sternly at Glain, “Why didn’t you tell me he had children!?”

“Father,” Glain sighed, “I assure you, Reyal doesn’t stand a chance – we just need to have a courteous discussion with Gul Dukat so we can see how much he doesn’t want certain conversations he had with Reyal to become public. He gave me the feeling of a turncoat-”

“That feeling would be extremely correct,” Garak said. “But be careful with him, still.” Glain looked up at him.

“Thank you,” he said with a slight frown. He returned his attention to the screen however. “And those children,” he signed for them to get closer, “I am bringing them back to Cardassia as mines, because Cardassia needs their talents and they need Cardassia.”

“No! To all of it!” Nall slammed his hand on the armrest again, “You will  _ not _ contact Dukat, certainly not to  _ blackmail him; _ Gul Dukat has a spotless record of getting back on people who have wronged him, I would hate for  _ our  _ family name to be added to that list,” he shook his head vigorously, “I am the head of this family.  _ I  _ decide where to go and when, and who to talk to, and about what. If anyone is to deal with Reyal, it is I, and I will do it in my way. Perhaps once you’ve earned my trust again, I’ll see what knowledge you’ve intoxicated yourself with, but until then, you’re  _ excluded _ from any such decision-making. And that includes the children,” he added coldly, “they are not yours, and they are not my grandchildren, and I will not have them living under my roof, nor with my blessing, nor with my name. Is that clear, Glain?”

“Well, you’ve already made it clear I’ll be living with the  _ housekeeper _ , and I am certain Keelani will be delighted to see children again,” Glain agreed in a mix of holding onto his dignity and submission. “Unless you don’t want me to come back at all, which ...I could understand,” he added, his voice starting to tremble a bit on the last words and eyes getting wet. “I’m… sorry… Father,” he looked at his torso because he knew too well he’d start crying if he looked into his eyes. His father had  _ never _ talked to him like that. Terek had approached and hugged him to comfort him. He looked at the screen, at Nall, staring in his eyes as to ask ‘ _ Why? Why do you have to be so hard on him? _ ’ Meanwhile, Garak had strategically vanished from the screen.

“I love you, father…” Glain excused himself, hugging Terek too. “I’m sorry I brought you shame and dissatisfaction, I-” he had to silence because his throat hurt, “-I thought you wanted me to give Melekor a chance, to  _ meet _ him… and that’s what I did…” he finally dared to look at him again.

“Don’t play stupid with me, Glain, because I won’t fall for it,” Nall avoided looking at the child, though he felt rather saddened himself by seeing his son like this. Then again, it was surely this softness he felt that had caused Glain to be led astray like this, “I don’t want your excuses, and I don’t want this emotional manipulation of yours – how do you expect me to let you be a father, when you can’t take responsibility for your own choices? Blaming them on my words, distorting what I told you? You are to return home. Without them,” he pointed towards Terek, and Kilem who was further back in the background, looking at one of Garak’s sewing tools, “Because they are  _ not _ your real children, and they will never  _ be _ your real children; you are able to create your own. The lowly duty of raising someone else’s spawn shouldn’t fall on you. I will not permit the disgrace.” Terek’s blood had turned cold, and he stared at Kilem for help, tears swelling over the idea that their dream, so close, might be shattered already. Glain froze, silent and horrified with himself.

“You… are under a lot of stress…” he uttered with a voice that felt like sand in his throat. “I can’t leave them here…” he stared blankly at the screen. “I’ll do  _ all _ you want, I promise, but… I  _ can’t _ do this to them…”

Somehow, Nall hadn’t expected getting defied again so early. It hurt in a bitter kind of way, a way that sucked the energy out of him. The instinct for looking after the young ran strong in his side of the family, which was why he’d wanted at least three children, and many grandchildren. That he’d ended up with only one child – moreover a son who wasn’t even interested in females – had been rather a blow for him, even without Reyal’s opportunistic attack. That his son would’ve inherited the instinct wasn’t so far-fetched, but that he’d project it on children that weren’t even his by blood?  _ That _ was hurtful.

“I want  _ grandchildren _ , Glain,” he complained bitterly, “who carry the legacy of myself, of my mother, my father, and their parents before them... not this game of pretence. Am I really so horrible to you? Were I not kind and accepting when you told me you lust not for women?  _ Why  _ do you keep on trying to rob me of the one, most fundamentally Cardassian thing I  _ crave? _ ” he sighed, tears rising in his eyes as he ran his fingers over his cheeks; he felt utterly and completely sorry for himself, and for his wife. “I would have hoped you’d be enjoined by now – perhaps a loveless enjoinment, but one with  _ children _ . That you would have granted your mother grandchildren before she were too lost to know who is her family… but you are a disappointment, Glain,” he rubbed his eyes as he cried, “and if you think your desire to care for these children is anything but selfish, think again...! Think of your family like we have always thought of you,  _ care _ for your family, as we have cared for you. These children, who aren’t yours...” he looked at them, then gulped and looked at Glain again, then at the children. Then he felt bad and closed his mouth. Why was he such an emotional fool? “Bring them. I’ll adopt them myself. But  _ you _ .  _ You _ are going to enjoin and have grandchildren  _ within one year _ . Your mother doesn’t have much time left, I… considered putting her out of her misery, I wanted you to be there, but I couldn’t contact you,” he scowled him a bit. “She attacked me,” he told him more discretely, “she woke up in the middle of the night, and she didn’t recognize me. She hit me, shoved me off of the bed and threw a flower pot on me, then she tried to strangle me. And that’s when she came back to her senses and recognized me again. She was  _ so sorry _ . And so was I…” Shocked and confused, Glain could only stare at his father, his jaw dropping a bit, unceremoniously.

“Why. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he gasped. “I will be coming on the first vessel headed to Cardassia, with Elem – I mean Melekor – and the children. I’ll have everything in order so we can be on our way. I’ll transmit you all information by subspace and make you aware of the moment of our departure. We will be there  _ soon _ , Father. I’m… I’m so sorry,” he apologized again. “I know I’ve always been a disappointment, but I promise, I’ll do as you say.”

At last, the conversation softened, and Nall asked to talk with the children. Terek was first, and very well-behaved, sincere about his skills as well as his more problematic assets – his scar, his oversensitive hearing, the fact he didn’t remember anything from his past and the fact he’d only just discovered he was more female than male. Nall was quite eager at the prospect of a  _ girl _ and, while Terek could accept to become one, he didn’t want to be  _ reduced  _ to being just fertile womb (with a dark glare towards Kilem). That Kilem wasn’t “physically straightforward” either was however getting to be a bit redundant – Nall had to wonder if Glain had cherry-picked them somehow.

“I’ll let you know when I’m at home, but I’ll just say this child is very unique, with high potential, and as such,  _ belongs _ to Cardassia,” the youth whispered to his father. “We  _ cannot _ leave him in the hands of the Bajorans.” Nall sighed, opting not to comment on that, instead asking to see the child.

At first, Kilem didn’t speak, only showing the bag he’d been sewing from scraps of fabric that Garak had given to busy the kids. Nall was starting to find the silence offensive when the child started to speak, quickly getting even more offensive – in that moment, Terek could strongly sympathize with the old Cardassian. The Conservator had kindly tried to explain to Kilem that finding his living relatives might prove tedious and delicate but could allow him to live in his house without adopting him, and the child had repaid him with by flatly telling him that he didn’t need his status since Nall wasn’t a doctor – which Kilem wished to become. He caught himself up however, although it would have been far-fetched to say he’d retrieved Nall’s good grace.

Last, the Conservator issued that Terek’s name wasn’t fit for a woman and would have to be changed if the child was to be assigned as female. “There’s still a name list laying around somewhere that I put together with my wife soon after our wedding, in case... in case we ever got a daughter,” he cleared his throat and smiled a little, “She had no preference, but I always wanted a daughter. It’s a bit saddening that we only had one child,” he sent a quick look to Glain, “even more so since he’s decided to be a reckless madman, traveling to stations in Bajoran space, putting himself in harm’s way.”

“But I will always protect my siblings, Father. All of them,” Glain set his hands on the children’s shoulders. “You always wanted more than one child, I always wanted siblings… and suddenly I find myself with more than I could ever dream of. I promise you, I’ll bring all of them safe and sound.”

“Alright,” Garak clapped his hands, “If you’re done now, I’d like to resume to business,” he required the call to be terminated. “Mister Rokat, if you’ll follow me, you have an order to try so I can finish it before you return home,” he showed the way to a changing stall.

##  * * *

Trapped between Lemia Ryx and freedom, Savras’ hearing had gone back and forth like a ball in a ballcourt.

“Her real name is Tixen, she used to be one of my readers.”

“Readers?”

“I’m a freelancing journalist, or was, rather. I kept tabs on extremist groups, and I was trying to build a bridge between them and the rest of society –” Ryx nodded a little.

“And that is why you were exiled?” she asked, but Savras wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement, so Ryx repeated the question.

“If it were, then it means my exile is illegal,” Savras folded her hands over her knee, “are you saying it is?”

“It’s classified by the Ministry of Justice, and I lack the clearance level,” the officer smiled in apology as she looked up from her PADD, “But I digress; you know this woman, Tixen. Please describe your relation to her.”

“Casual. We discussed everyday things, personal matters too. Her activities? No, I made sure to keep any such conversations well out of the waters with all of my contacts – have this clear in mind, Lieutenant, that none of the extremists I worked with were  _ confirmed _ extremists. All I had to go on were my impression of them – even if I had reported them, those reports would’ve fallen flat, because I made sure never to have any proof.” Ryx smiled a little.

“Considering that there  _ are _ no extremist groups, like what you imagine, that isn’t strange. They aren’t extremists, Wayan, they are rogue sects, occult orders. Some more disruptive than others, and yes, still very illegal for some of them.” Savras chose not to comment on that, so the conversation went on, “Mister Lykes tells me Tixen offered you to join her cause. Did you accept?” Savras’s eyes widened and she straightened up in her chair.

“Of course not!”

“I’d like you to take a look at this,” Ryx withdrew a smaller PADD from her pocket and slid it towards Savras, “Your thumbscan will unlock the contents. From there, it’s up to you what you choose – but I think you’ll find their offer to be irresistible.”

##  * * *

“My father demoted me to I-don’t-know-what-post yet and told me how absolutely inacceptable it was that I’d adopt children who aren’t real because raising the offspring of others is  _ way _ below me,” Glain told his brother once back to the quarters. “As a result, he decided to adopt them  _ himself _ ,” he made a face but smiled. Nall was way too sweet and soft for his own good. “That’s for the good news. The bad new is that my mother’s illness has progressed and my father has finally decided time has come to put her out of her misery,” he stiffened a bit. “We’re going back home, Elem. I want to be there to tell her goodbye, and I have a lot of things to sort through.”

“We’ll go as soon as we can, but it will take time to book passage – there are so few ships daring to make that route now, especially since the Maquis threat,” he answered first. Then he took in what more Glain had said, and went closer to him, “Glain... I’m sorry,” he wanted to hold him, but felt awkward about how to do it.

“There is no need to be sorry,”  Glain acted stoic, “I have taken risks and I have lost, and I’ve known my mother’s condition might take a quick turn for the worst for two years now. In a way… it’s a relief,” he admitted. “Father was probably too light in his punishment; he’s always been too light, too soft, and I have brought him shame and disgrace. I’ll arrange passage for us aboard the first ship to depart for Cardassia, even if it has to be a Lissepian freighter, but first, we need the children’s papers to be in order so their visums can be accepted. I need Lykes to provide me with medical proof of Terek’s femalehood to quicken the approbation of their coming, and I suppose we’ll have to sort Kilem as female too for now.” He sighed and looked at the mess of cables and tools spread around the quarters and the shimmer of the forcefield that appeared right after the entrance door had closed behind him – Melekor  _ had _ been productive during those hours alone, locked up in there. “So, what can I do to help you?” he figured he might as well give him a hand.

“Just help me clean if you really want to; I won’t be needing those cables and spare circuits anymore,” the engineer answered. Glain nodded, letting him deactivate the forcefield blocking the doors. That done, the archivist could go in their bedroom, where he had the unpleasant surprise to find the riffle.

“Now can you tell me exactly what you’ve been doing!?” he worried.

“I’ve made preparations for such an event that my friend might show up and this,” Melekor came over and gesticulated towards the gun, “is my life insurance. I intend to capture him, and question him about his involvement with Savras’s exile, and the Ra’Shakiin. Now, I’ve rigged forcefields to cover both bedrooms, so no one can beam in or go in there, which leaves the main room as the only possible entrance. In the event that a life sign is detected in there once we are ‘asleep’, a forcefield will activate there too, and an alarm will alert me of an alien presence. Then,” he grabbed at the rifle, “I’ll confront him –  _ you _ will stay in here, whatever happens. Timun and Savras, ah, I’ve put a special lock on their door – they can’t get out from the inside, but I won’t bother to tell them that; it’s better that they don’t know.” Glain nodded slowly.

“I suppose I would be more of a danger for you than help if he gets to me and uses me as shield. But I want you to know that, if my life were to be threatened ...value yours over mine, please,” he placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m serious about this.” He couldn’t help but see his father’s face, the anger and the betrayal. Think of all the things he’d done wrong – that included the disorderly, misplaced desire he’d had for his _own_ _brother_.

“Now who’s got a deathwish?” Melekor laid a hand on Glain’s, and then held it, “You are worth more than I am. You’re Father’s only lawful child, his legacy is yours. I couldn’t put myself above you or him. You’ll keep out of the way, and you’ll sooner call station security than throw yourself into a situation that could kill you – is that understood?”

“Yes…” Glain agreed. “I… I suppose I’ll just keep on reading and sorting the archives I have from Bajor then. That’ll keep me busy,” he forced a smile. “Although, I could maybe put the surveillance cameras back online, so we can see who’s coming in and record every-”

“It’ll be dark, that won’t be of any use and I soundproofed the forcefields, just in case,” Melekor nodded. “I’m worried doing that might cause the system to become sluggish; it doesn’t have a particularly powerful processor unit... and you’d have to tie it up to higher systems, and that might cause glitches in my already established subroutines. No, this isn’t the moment to try and be fancy, we should stick to the basics.” The archivist grunted to himself. His brother might not think that’d be of any help,  _ he _ thought otherwise.

##  * * *

“So, how did it go for you two?” Savras asked as she joined Timun and Dziana at Quark’s – Timun groaned.

“I thought it was  _ never _ going to end,” he quickly went over the various topic she asked him about. “And now she probably also thinks that Dziana is a pervert,” he concluded as he also expanded over what concerns Julian reported to him.

“It’s not my fault if I like to look at girls,” the child defended herself. “They are prettier.”

“Until further notice, Terek isn’t one and you’ll refrain from staying in the bedroom just so you can look at him when he’s naked. And any other person for that matter.” She sighed and looked at Savras.

“More seriously, Chief Ryx seemed more inclined to believe in dragons than in the Ra’Shakiin. But I didn’t tell her the name of Melekor’s friend. I told her she had way enough information to investigate on her own if she really wants to.”

“She’s got even more nerve than I do,” Timun shook his head.

“I’m a little girl; they’re not allowed to hurt me. It gives me a broader margin for behaviors that would be less acceptable coming from an adult. I know very well that this privilege won’t last forever.” She paused as Savras looked rather uneasy. As the siblings silenced, the woman had to speak.

“Timun, I... I’ve decided not to come with you to Cardassia,” she dropped the bomb and then looked up at him, “I’m sorry.” Timun blinked.

“Where are you going then? To the Romulan Star Empire? What happened? What did she tell you? Is that a decision or…?” he tensed at once. Savras shook her head.

“This is all a cover story, isn’t it? Within three weeks, the ‘murderer’ of Jaden and possibly Mynx will be found, convicted and brought to justice, mark my words,” she wet her lower lip and went on to explain her motivation to find Mynx in the Commission’s stead. Timun’s eyes widened in puzzlement and complete opposition to such a dangerous enterprise for a man who didn’t even deserve it to begin with,  _ especially _ if Savras’s plan was to infiltrate the rebels while the Ra’Shakiin might still be on their tracks!

“I’ve survived thus far, I think my odds are pretty fine,” she stroked his lips with a stray finger. “Timun, sweetest, it’s not any safer to go to Cardassia, to cross through the so-called neutral zone... and I have to find out what they are fighting for. What they truly want. There are too many questions, not enough answers and... Trill is my home. If I can’t be there, I’ll at least work to make sure things get better. I  _ have _ to do this. If not for me, then for my daughter’s future on Trill. I’ll be here once you return. Or perhaps, I’ll catch up with you in Cardassia once my work here is done.”

“Then maybe I should stay with you?” he looked at her with eyes that were wet but serious nonetheless. “Melekor doesn’t need me anymore now that he has his brother; not to mention that he hates me. And I don’t think there’s anything in Cardassia that’s more important than you.”

“Timun Lykes,” Savras stole his hand to her lips instead, “now, don’t go get offended by what I have to say, but... you’d only be in the way,” she had to remind him he already had a mission for himself: going to study Cardassians, and he had to let her be on her own. He closed his eyes, feeling defeated. How did Julian do to let his colleagues go on mission and face danger all the time? But then, Julian’s colleagues wore either a Starfleet or Bajoran uniform. Savras had nothing.

“You don’t even have a status as a Federation citizen anymore, Savras. You have to request asylum somewhere. Your credits won’t last forever. And… how are we going to keep contact?” his throat felt dry as he spoke. “There’s… there’s something about your confidence. I left that cell and now you walk to me like you’re a different person, I mean, did Ryx set you up on this?” he interrupted himself.  _ “Did she?” _ he stared at her as he slipped into her mind, holding to her fingers.  _ “I’m not looking, but I want to believe what you tell me is true… Did she, or someone she works for, set you up on this, Savras?” _ The woman sighed, shaking her head before answering.

_ “The people of Trill need to know the truth. That these groups, like Tixen’s, aren’t religious sects. I intend to investigate for the greater good. In the meanwhile, I have filed a request with the Bajoran council for citizenship here. It is outside of the Federation, which will keep my hands untied,” _ she brought his hand to her lips, while she phrased her thoughts further.  _ “The Commission has granted me a chance for redemption; if I act the part of a double agent, to infiltrate the terrorist cell Tixen is involved in, they might return my status as a Trillian citizen: I may even see my daughter more frequently than before. It’s a good offer, Timun.” _

_ “It’s not a good offer, Savras. I’ve been around Ferengi for long enough to know a scam when I see one. They put you in that dead end to coerce you into working for them. That means they don’t trust you. I think you should have a medical check-up with Julian, see if they put any implant of any sort on you, just so you know. I might not be the most knowledgeable about spies, but I can’t help but wonder, what after you mission is over? Will they keep you alive or get rid of you, of all the evidence of what they strive to eliminate? If the Ra’Shakiin doesn’t exist, can Savras Wayan ever exist again after this, or will you have to become one of them?”  _ Timun let go off her hand, slowly, but maintained the connection, focusing strongly to do so.

_ “I was rather hoping that once all of this is done, I’ll be Savras Lykes,” _ she smiled and he froze completely, _ “The Commission doesn’t believe the Ra’Shakiin exists – if it does, it’s not an official thing, or they wouldn’t have to ask me; just look at all the trouble they’ve gone through to get me to this point. If it’s true that they’ve staged the entire situation to have me act as a double agent, why didn’t they simply say so at the trial? Then I would’ve taken Tixen’s offer the moment she made it. Now... well. I still think it’s an offer worth taking. What other option do I have?” _

“Timun, are you fine?” Dziana suddenly shook his arm as he’d frozen for several seconds now. “Your cheeks are turning all green,” she worried, looking at how his face was twitching. He had a weird smile and his jaw was trembling a bit. Then, he got up, raising his finger as to ask for the other two to wait for him and ran away by the first level door of Quark’s to reappear a few minutes later coming down the second level, heart beating strong and eyes shining.

“What was that for!?” Quark yelled at him. 

Timun strode to the bar, “Give me a bottle of something to celebrate. I’m getting engaged.” The Ferengi looked at him with surprise but also appreciation.

“ _ Well _ , then what about some Vulcan Port?” he suggested. Timun squinted.

“It’s alcoholic.”

“Are you going to  _ celebrate _ or not?” Quark glared at him in a very judgemental way. Timun bit his lips and decided to ask Savras.

_ “Do you want to have the craziest sex you’ve ever had tonight or would you be fine with something more regular?” _

_ “If you think it’s safe,” _ Savras agreed, chuckling a little,  _ “I guess Dziana will have to sleep someplace else...”  _ Timun smiled brightly at Quark, all teeth out.

“My dear Quark, tonight is the night I’m buying your alcohol. How much for that bottle?”

“Ten strips,” the Ferengi showed his PADD for the thumb print.

“Ten strips!?” the Vulcan echoed in outrage. “ _ You scammy little thief of a Ferengi _ ,” he hissed in the bartender’s own tongue. “Well, done with the flatteries. You’ve got a deal,” he pressed on the PADD and grabbed the bottle.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Quark grinned.

“So what’s going on?” Dziana asked as he sat while Savras laughed at the entire situation – Timun, Quark’s expression, and now Dziana’s questions and the assumptions that followed, “You’re going to get married? Savras is going to be my mom too?” Dziana looked at her eagerly. “Mirna is going to be my sister-in-law? Which of you asked it and when?” she looked at them both. “Oh, you melded! And Savras asked of course! Because she’s the one who is brave! When are you getting married? Can I wear the pretty dress you ordered from Garak for the ceremony?”

“All in due time,” she patted Dziana on the head, “I imagine we’ll get married... sometime after Timun’s done in Cardassia, and I’m done with my journalistic endeavours – wouldn’t it be nice to have Mynx attend the wedding, hm? I’ll have to pass on the invitation in person – old school. Maybe I should write it on paper.”

“Mynx? You mean dad? You’re going to find him, really? Can I go with you?”

“No,” Timun answered first. “You’re going to go back to Trill to be with mom and Jabin, they need you a lot more than Savras does. ...And I suppose we should call mom to tell her about the news. At least we have a good one,” he caressed Savras’ hand.

“We do...” she folded her fingers in his and smiled, shaking her head, “I really do love you, Timun... Hm... I wonder if Doctor Bashir might not mind looking after Dziana tonight? He seems to have a good hand with children, after all.”

“I feel like I’ve asked him so much,” Timun admitted with embarrassment. “But I suppose we-”

“He said that if I need any help I only have to ask,” Dziana argued.

“Do you feel like you’d like to spend some more time with him?” her father asked with concern.

“I think I’d like to, especially if we’re going to leave soon. But I don’t really want to spend the night at the infirmary.”

“Of course, my sugar candy,” he stroked her hand. “We’ll ask him once he’s done with the hearing. And meanwhile, we could call mom.” Savras nodded, smiling brightly.

“Yes, let’s do that,” she got to her feet in an instant, adjusting her hair, “Am I presentable enough to be onscreen for your mom? How do I look?” Timun got up as well and pulled a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“Like a woman I’d marry,” he smiled and kissed her, invading her tenderly for a good minute. “You are sublime.” Dziana giggled when they looked back at her.

“Savras is too good for you, Timun.”

“I know!” he didn’t even try to deny. He just grabbed the bottle of Port and they went back to the quarters.

There, they had the strange surprise to see forcefields appear and bar the way to all doors, but before they could ask questions they disappeared and Melekor came in.

“Did you get bored and decided to improve our quarters again?” Timun asked him. Melekor gave it a thought then nodded.

“I guess you can put it this way, yes. Sorry for the inconvenience…”

“So long as we can come and go,” Timun sighed. “I need to call my mother to tell her about what happened to her husband and organize Dziana’s return to Trill. And… for tonight, Savras and I were planning to be together,” he passed his arm around her waist and showed the bottle, grinning wide. “She’s going on a mission of her own, and when she’ll be back from it, and I back from Cardassia, we’re going to marry,” he announced brightly. “Do you want to share a glass with us later? And then lock us in my room – and you out of it…”

“No, thank you,” the engineer answered in a voice that sounded like someone had stepped on it, “I have algorithms to perfect, pardon me,” he snuffed out his voice.

“I think we should rather make the call in your room,” Savras suggested and Timun approved, leading the way.

“I like your new working clothes!” Dziana threw at Melekor as she followed the adults – the Cardassian acknowledged the compliment, although Garak should probably be the one to receive it.

Once in the room, Timun quickly dialed to call home on Trill. It took a bit longer than usual for the signal to be picked and he wondered if it might not be the middle of the night there, or something. When his brother appeared and he could hear a deep masculine voice screaming like a dying whale in the background, he knew something was definitely wrong.

“Jabin?” he asked. The boy looked a bit pale and exhausted.

“Mom! It’s Timun and Dzi!” the teenager shouted first before returning his attention to his siblings and Savras. “And Miss Wayan,” he greeted her politely.

“What’s going on at home?” Timun frowned even more as he could hear talking in Ferengi too. “Are Brinn and Keg there?”

“Not just them. I don’t even know where to begin! It’s a complete mess here! Agents from the State Security came and they ransacked everything! They took all the PADDs and practically everything belonging to dad. Mom had to nearly fight for them to let us keep my school PADDs. But they took all your music library. Literally. They took the isolinear chips from the computer. We’ve only been told that dad’s gone missing, but that’s the extent of it! The Ferengi say he’s dead,” he gulped anxiously. Nysar appeared next to him, strands of hair spiking up a bit as if she’d been in a fight.

“Are you safe, Timun? Is Dziana alright?” she first asked. He only had the time to wet his lips and let out a “ _ Well- _ ” before being interrupted by Dziana.

“Dad was abducted in front of us,” she told and developed onto the events from Jaden’s sick state to the hearing with Chief Lemia Ryx.

“Was it a Ktarian ship by any chance?” Keg suddenly pushed the others to appear on screen – he was a very proper-looking Ferengi.

“It might be,” Timun nodded. “I’ve seen a number of Ktarians and heard about them. Their ship would have been stolen so it might be the one. Why?”

“Encrypt that call, first, boy,” the Ferengi sent a key and ended the transmission. Timun looked at Savras but did as he’d been told, calling again.

“So why does it matter that they’re Ktarians?”

“It’s best you don’t know,” Keg groaned. “ _ This _ kind of maneuver was  _ not _ part of the deal. Now, was your father still alive when he was beamed?”

“Yes,” Timun answered annoyedly. “Don’t you talk about profit now, Keg. And what’s that dying whale sound in the background!?”

“It’s Qanaak,” Nysar answered. “Apparently  _ he _ had a relationship with your father that I was not aware of.” She controlled herself, but she was absolutely angry, Timun knew. He could almost feel it through the screen.

“Qanaak? And dad!?” The sound suddenly intensified, shaping like Timun’s name and Keg was shoved out of the way by the crying Klingon.

“Timun! I have failed him! I am unworthy! I am nothing but a dishonor to him and to my heart, to Starfleet, to the Federation, to Tr-” Nysar slapped him on the head.

“Jaden is still alive, you dolt!” she scolded him. “Or at least the was last time he was seen.”

“Really?” Qanaak pressed his face a bit too close to the screen. “Do not move, Timun Lykes, I take the ship-”

“You can’t take the ship!” Keg objected, but the Klingon instantly punched him, sending him tumbling through the living room and causing Nysar to fuss even more while Jabin just paled some more.

“When  _ I _ say I take the ship, I  _ take  _ the ship!” Qanaak roared.

Timun looked at Savras again, reaching for her hand to paint her a quick portrait of the Klingon – former goldshirt kicked out from Starfleet, turned pilot for Jaden and the Ferengi. While the ship in itself seemed interesting, the woman could hardly agree to just team up with the Klingon when she’d been required to work alone. 

“Mom, what about Dziana?” he tried to get her attention.

“I’d like to have her back,” Nysar answered. “When can you bring her back?”

“I actually don’t know when I’m allowed to leave the station,” Timun admitted. “Chief Ryx is investigating this as a potential murder case.”

“I told you it was a murder case!” Keg could be heard in the back. “Why does she think he’s dead if you saw him being abducted!? Aren’t three witnesses enough?”

“Four actually,” the Vulcan-Trill corrected. “Doctor Bashir of Starfleet was present too. But this is all a cover up.” Qanaak came closer again.

“Timun, my brother,” he addressed him with drunken solemnity, “I will find him. I have served him loyally ever since I left Starfleet and I shall continue.” The doctor bit his lips, nodding slowly. “You don’t seem enthused,” the mechanic noted. “I suppose… you must be troubled,” he clenched his jaws in shame.

“No, no… I mean, yes, quite,” Timun had to admit. “I never knew, I never even suspected…! What… what sort of relationship was there between you!? We’re the same age, Qanaak!”

“I’m sorry, it is shameful, I know,” the Klingon looked down. “It’s complicated with you, Trills… and we kept it secret. Your father wasn’t too comfortable with it either…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shame you… it’s just that it’s… Well, I thought he was  _ very _ heterosexual,” Timun wet his lips nervously.

“So did he. As I said, it’s complicated with you, Trills.”

“Are you going to come take me with the ship?” Dziana asked. Timun tried not to flinch. In a second, he reached telepathically to Savras again, to ask if she’d be up to letting them come on Qanaak’s ship so she might borrow it maybe?

_ “Does he gamble?” _ Savras asked back,  _ “If he does, I could win the ship off of him. With a healthy amount of cheating,” _ she smirked and looked down.

_ “Love. Have you seen the Ferengi?” _ Timun hinted. “If you could come pick her,” he addressed the screen, “it would be a great service done to us, and I believe your ship goes faster than the shuttle.”

“How  _ dare _ you insult my ship by comparing it with a shuttle!?” the Klingon raised his fist at the screen. “I’ll make the trip at warp 8,” he glared.

“Great, it’ll be nice to see that ship again too,” Timun smiled.

“You are  _ not _ allowed to touch the helm  _ ever _ ,” Nysar forbade. Savras snorted a bit at the scolding, and patted Timun on the arm.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” she promised with a wink to his mother, “he can be  _ very _ obedient, if you just give him clear instructions.”

“Ah, about that…” Timun started with a bit of blush.

“They’re going to marry!” Dziana spoke first again.

“Dzi!”

“But it’s true.”

“Is it?” Nysar asked.

“Ah, well, yes, we were thinking… after I’m back from Cardassia…” Timun fumbled and flushed.

“Is she pregnant?” the woman asked, suspicious.

“No! Not that I know of…” Timun looked at Savras. “We’ve been careful and-” he stared back at his mother- “I know we haven’t known each other for a long time but-”

“It was only a question,” Nysar interrupted. “I know it’s a short notice, but at least you introduced her to us, and I suppose you’ve been in enough relationships to know that this one is different.”

“Ah… yes,” the young man agreed, a bit stunned by the logic. Why was he even surprised? He’d always known his mother was a Vulcan.

“What about you, Savras?” she inquired. The Trill grinned a bit.

“Are you asking me if I’ve been in many relationships?” she chuckled a little at the question, then shook her head, “I’ve been married, and I have a daughter – and I’ve been in a lot of relationships. Both before I got married, and after it ended. Most of those were brief; it’s how it goes when you’re a public transportation girl – at least one lover per stop, that’s my policy. Timun… he’s on a different level. And he’s very charming, especially when he freaks out about hygiene levels and shower standards – did I tell you he wrote an entire love poem to my shower-toilet back on Trill? Very romantic, I tell you. I’m still waiting for him to write one for  _ me _ .” Timun had to cover his face with both hands, only letting a  _ “Noooooo…” _ echo in Savras’s mind. But thankfully, Nysar seemed amused.

“That sounds like him.”

“And mom,” Dziana spoke again, “Savras is like you! She’s also exiled!” she told excitedly.

“Now that’s something else,” Nysar didn’t appear too shocked about it. “Do you need  _ anything? _ Money, contacts, transport, clothes…” she asked with serious.

“I have some possessions in my old flat that you could maybe pick up for me – Ekka, one of my neighbours, will know what I’m talking about,” Savras gave the address and warned that Ekka might expect a little payment for the service.

“I’ll get them for you,” Nysar assured.

“What about me?” Jabin asked. “Do I stay here? What if someone from the State comes again?”

“You’re going to stay with Azrija,” his mother decided. “Go get ready, I’ll call her just after.” She turned back to the screen. “As soon as Jabin is with her, I’ll go to your place, Savras, and be on my way to DS9 with Qanaak to come and get Dzi. Are you sure there’s nothing else you could possibly need? Is there nobody you would like to contact? Your ex-wife or your daughter?”

“It’s easier on them if I don’t,” Savras shook her head.

“Then expect us tomorrow,” Qanaak said. “Qanaak off,” he hit his chest and ticked. “End transmission!” – Timun chuckled.

“Habit from Starfleet. It never wore off,” he grinned. That was one thing done. Next thing to do for them was to ask Julian for his assistance again. The man was tired, but he clearly wasn’t the sort to turn his back on a little girl in need to talk and whose father-sibling was in need of some respite too. He could tell there was an underlying motive, but he could very well imagine that Timun and Savras certainly needed that break after all they’d gone through.

The young couple made it back to the quarters. They had dinner and a few glasses of Vulcan Port, a cuddly shower and then, locked in their room, they let the mood shift to something warmer than life, unaware of the forcefield activating all around the quarters.


	33. Day 28 - I

##  Day 28

 

An hour went, then another. Glain was asleep under his blankets – a faint sniffling snore marked his state of being. Melekor? He was awake, but doubts grew in him – perhaps no one would come. Perhaps nothing would happen. Wrapped in his arms, the rifle sat diligently and watched over him as he, too, fell asleep. His slumber didn’t last long however, as a blinking light accompanied with a low beeping sound woke him up, and for a confused couple of seconds, he wasn’t sure where he was or what that sound meant – but then. Then he captured his breath in his lungs, made a shushing gesture to Glain, and slid out of bed. The last thing he did before he opened the doors to the other room, was to set his rifle to stun, and secure the data magnifier in his eyesocket. The room was darker than he’d last left it, and appeared entirely empty at first; the rustling of fabric as the other moved wasn’t audible to the Cardassian. Instead he spotted the movements of pale skin, and knew he’d given himself away as the doors hissed shut behind him. Fickle hands were working with the replicator – the man knew the mechanism to release the forcefield was hidden somewhere in there.

“Step away from that panel,” Melekor ordered him as he lifted his rifle and pointed it at the other, “now.” As he turned around, the pale patches were stitched into the shape of a man. A cold glimmer somewhere near his chest, drew Melekor’s attention from his face and he found himself staring into the hollow metal pipe of a gun. The man’s gasp forced him to look up again, and the Cardassian tightened his hold on the rifle.

“Go back into the bedroom,” ordered Maniel’s voice, albeit older, and oddly strangled. As if he were on the verge of tears. Melekor frowned and took a step closer, but the glimmering metal caught the light with its hasty movement, and the Cardassian had to stop in his tracks.

“Maniel, it’s me, Melekor,” his own voice felt small in comparison, “please, if you’d just let me-”

“I said go back!” Desperation. Why was he desperate?

“Or you’ll kill me,” Melekor swallowed. His mouth felt dry – he thought of Glain’s words, and his grip on the rifle hardened.

“Yes,” Maniel answered, stepping forward so that the cold light from space hit his face, reflected in the deep blue eyes that were set on his target. They were filled with liquid.

“They know who you are,” Melekor hurriedly told, clinging to each word, “the terrorists, they know your real name, and your cover names.” Confusion flickered in Maniel’s eyes, but then his jaws tensed.

“What have you done, Melekor Kel?” he asked, a dark threat between the lines.

“I thought you were dead, all this time – I needed to know,” he clung to the rifle, “and I melded with the wrong Vulcan.”

“Timun Lykes is a terrorist?”

Melekor shook his head, “But his father is.”

“He told the woman, the one who came here.” Something more relaxed came over Maniel’s face, and finally, he lowered his weapon. So did Melekor. “Then it is too late to kill you,” he mumbled, but then lifted his weapon again, an entirely different expression in his eyes; his hand was shaking, and his jaws were clenched, “I have to protect the Ra’Shakiin. You know too much.” He spoke the words like they weren’t his own, and it took Melekor too long to understand what was happening – by the time the sound hit him, the bullet already had.  _ Ballistic weapons _ , Melekor thought distantly as he felt himself bounce against the wall and the floor lounged at him,  _ they aren’t picked up by any Federation weapon’s detection system. Very clever. _

He wasn’t dead, he realized as he came back into his head. His shoulder had been shot, and blood was pooling out through the wound, a slow stream, but he  _ wasn’t dead _ . The forcefield wasn’t off, either, so Maniel was still in there, somewhere. There was an unnatural sound, like something was repeatedly shuffled back and forth, and as Melekor forced himself up to crawl towards the sound, he found out that it was Maniel himself, on the floor, convulsions rippling through his body. Poison, Melekor figured, it wasn’t an unheard-of tool for agents, or so he’d read. His tongue felt like lead as he deactivated the forcefield, and somehow managed to request a medical emergency transport – for the Trill. Stupidly, he forgot about himself and let darkness creep over him.

 

“Computer, light,” Glain’s voice ordered distantly as he hurried over Melekor’s passing out body. “Computer, contact the infirmary!” he almost squealed when he realized his brother was harmed, “Medical emergency, man down, bleeding, unconscious!” he spoke with a dry mouth. His brain worked fast. Quickly, he got to the rifle that was lying further away, turning it offline at once and getting it back inside the room while his brother disappeared.

He hated having to entrust Melekor to the Bajorans, but comforted himself over the idea that they’d done a good job at keeping him alive so far. Once the rifle was hidden back inside the panel it’d been in before, Glain grabbed Melekor’s hypospray in case it would be needed at the infirmary, and also to have a pretext to request being beamed there. The nurse sounded stressed but agreed, still.

 

Meanwhile Julian had his hands full – he’d been woken from his sweet slumber by the emergency call, and he’d been forced to ask Chief O’Brien to come pick Dziana from his quarters – Timun hadn’t answered his call, and he had no time to drop the girl off.

The Trill he was working on wasn’t responding to his treatment. His brain functions were shutting off, and organ failure after organ failure threatened to win the battle. To make matters worse, Melekor Kel appeared in the infirmary not long after, and he’d been forced to commit him to Jabara’s capable care, while he continued to struggle with the Trill.

“Come on...!” he stared at the display screen connected to the medical scanners he’d attached to the patient, “Come on!” Frustration got the better of him – he had to think fast. Things slowed down as he did – if this wasn’t going to work in the end, the man might die before he’d know right from wrong. The stakes were already rather high. He could afford to take risks, he figured, as he administered another four cc’s of delerine. There, it seemed that the condition stabilized, but it was still acute, and Julian realized there was nothing more he could do – the patient wouldn’t last more than a couple of hours. It was all he could give him, so he leaned closer with the hypospray, and called him back to the living world, for a last time.

Maniel blinked at the unwelcome world, and it didn’t take him long to realize where he was. The pain was gone, but he could tell he was dying; somehow he could feel the breath of death in his neck.

“Where is Melekor?” he asked hoarsely to the man who stood over him.

“In surgery, he’s going to be fine – who are you?” Maniel smiled up at him.

“His friend.”

 

Next door, Glain Rokat had just rematerialized, already asking after his brother.

“In surgery, but don’t worry, he’ll be safe soon. The other’s more worrying,” Ches’kar took the phelenaxinide hypospray from his hand. “I think someone has questions for you to answer,” he hinted at someone behind Glain. The Cardassian turned around to see the Constable, staring at him with suspicion, arms crossed.

“Let me guess, the Vulcan again?” he asked in complete sincerity, although he had to admit that at this point it was getting a bit ridiculous. Glain wasn’t too amused.

“No. The Vulcan is safe with Savras,” he told flatly.

“There was a Trill man, Odo,” the Bajoran spoke. “I have absolutely no records of him. No identification of any sort in the Federation database. For all I know, this man doesn’t exist, but somehow he must have beamed on the station and now he’s practically dying in sickbay.”

“Melekor is  _ not _ responsible for this,” Glain told at once. “He’s the one who’s bleeding and unconscious.”

“It was just a scratch,” Ches’kar shook his head. “Nothing like what we’ve had before with him – and we’d really like him to stop getting harmed like that. He’ll probably be back on his feet in a couple of minutes, as soon as Jabara’s done closing the wound.”

Odo straightened up a little, then harrumphed, “Odo to Lieutenant Ryx.” It took her a little moment to answer.

“Ryx here,” came the sleep-ragged voice. “What appears to be the matter?”

“We have an unidentified Trill dying in the infirmary, I believe that falls under your jurisdiction.”

“Aye sir, I’ll be right there. Ryx out.” Odo sighed and went to see the Trill for himself, intruding on a discussion.

“-afraid we can’t do anything.”

“I know, you did your best, Doctor,” Maniel patted the man’s arm and closed his eyes, sighing, “I’d like to see him. Melekor.”

“I’d like to have some questions answered.” Odo said sharply.

“Odo, not now,” Julian rebuked and got up to shoo Odo away, “This man is dying, and this is my sickbay, I’ll have you expulsed if I want to.”

“In that case, I’d like to ask my questions  _ before _ he dies!”

“Shh! Now get away from this patient before I order you to.”

 

“He tried to commit suicide,” Glain figured as he saw Odo coming back. “He failed his mission…” he muttered. “Melekor is going to kill Lykes…  _ Figuratively _ ,” he rectified as the Constable and the nurse reacted. Figuratively…  _ He hoped _ . Before anyone could add anything, Jabara came out of surgery, quickly handing a tube to Odo. “That’s just a fragment of the bullet, the rest is probably somewhere in the room where Mister Kel was shot. I must say we don’t see this kind of things often. A ballistic weapon, from what I gather.”

“Is Melekor awake? Can I see him?” Glain urged.

“That’s for Doctor Bashir to decide,” she held up her hand to refrain the ardour.

 

Melekor however wasn’t going to wait for Bashir to decide where he could or couldn’t go – instead, he’d gotten up from the surgery bed, and gone out of the room. It didn’t take him awfully long to locate the medibed where Maniel laid, and he wasn’t stopped on his way there, just dampened a bit by Julian putting his hand on his arm and leaning close.

“He’s awake but weak, and I’m afraid we can’t do anything more for him,” Melekor stopped in his tracks and swallowed hard.

“You mean, he’s going to die?” His eyes pricked a bit, and he couldn’t quite see Julian as he looked at him.

“His neural pathways aren’t going to recover, and while he’s stabilized, his body will get burnt out within hours. I’m sorry,” answered the doctor. He rubbed his shoulder, but let him go to his friend. Melekor pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed; Maniel was pale, his otherwise rosy pink lips were more waxen in color than red.

“Maniel...” Black eyelashes flickered, and then he met those dark blue eyes, a distant glimmer in them. The Trill smiled and lifted his left hand to lay it on Melekor’s cheek.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better view to die to,” he told him in an awkward kind of bluntness that hurt so much that it made Melekor angry with him.

“Don’t say that,” he fisted his hands in his lap, but then hurried up to take Maniel’s hand in his own – he was cold, and the Cardassian tried to rub warmth into him with his equally luke-warm fingers. The Trill smiled at the effort, and there was some sort of comfort in his eyes, but even that made Melekor frustrated; “ _ Why _ didn’t you kill me...?” he demanded to know in a whimper, “Why did you do this to yourself?” An amused sound left the other, and he blinked at him, slowly.

“I did, once,” he told him, then wheezed and coughed, “here on the station. I killed you, Melekor. You always were my weakness – but to kill you twice?” he smiled, his lips were turning dry.

“What do you mean?”

“That day, when everyone saw what they wished for, I saw you. And I killed you,” he rubbed his fingers and licked his lips, “duty compelled me to kill you – isn’t it enough to ask of a man to complete such a duty once?” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“And now you’re going to die instead of me,” Melekor confronted him, more anger in his voice than he’d intended to share.

“Yes, but I’ll die with the knowledge that you live,” he squeezed his hand and smiled, a single stroke of water leaking down his left cheek.

“I don’t want you to die!” Melekor protested, tears starting to trickle down over his scales.

“Please, don’t cry, Melekor,” a cold hand washed away the liquid from his face, and Maniel half-sat, offering Melekor a seat on the bed instead, which he accepted. There, Maniel leaned against him, his breathing getting a bit uneven.

“Stay with me until I die,” he asked of him, “pretend we’re just seventeen again. We had so much to talk about then, didn’t we?”

“I’ll try,” it was an unfair thing to ask; Melekor wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince himself they were back there, but as Maniel laid down again and placed his head in his lap and looked up at him, he forced himself to smile.

“Do you still listen to SSS?” Maniel asked, and the question felt idiotic for such a moment in time.

“Yes, I do, sometimes,” Melekor admitted and started stroking his friends’ hair.

“And  _ Snakebreath _ , do you remember that one?”

“I listened to it not long ago.”

“It always made me think of you, Melekor. Of how I love you, how I always loved you – and how you never understood, or never dared to understand… I miss those days, I always missed those days. I watched you from afar more often than you can imagine. I’ve traveled on your transport ship more times than you’d guess, sometimes just to get a glimpse of you – and I wish that I could’ve reached out to you, but I knew that in doing so, I’d be your death.”

Melekor hadn’t expected this, the honesty of it, and that sentiment of love, that confession – which made so much sense, but that he had never managed to see before. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just continued combing that black hair between his fingers. The silence between them wasn’t anything unnatural; there was a peaceful understanding, and once Melekor’s back started to hurt, he simply laid down next to his friend and held him close, keeping eye-contact, sometimes sharing the darkness of closed eyes, until such a time that Maniel fell asleep, and Melekor too.

Only one of them would wake up.

##  * * *

It was a long wait. A strange wait. Glain didn’t want to leave the infirmary, he wanted to be there for his brother, and yet, he had to retreat to a corner of a bathroom for a while, to evade the presence of the late Bajorans. He couldn’t help but think of this awkward moment in Melekor’s room, of the things he’d told, of the rude suggestions he’d made when he’d confessed having created a holoprogram of Enkem. He sat and held his face, trying to hold back his emotions, but soon his shoulders started to shake violently and while he could mute the sobs forming in his throat, the tears came out in flow and there was no way he could stop them.

It was just too unfair! He’d lost Enkem, why did Melekor have to lose Maniel!? This was all the fault of Lykes, of Julian, of Garak – the blames and responsibilities were starting to blend together in his cries, and sounds escaped him as he sat, undignified, on the floor, face and fingers wet with salty water. What an idiot he’d been to compare the two men, he realized, as empathy made it all feel like Enkem was the one dying. Confused, sad, angry and despaired, Glain could only let out the pain until he’d cried so much that his body had no more tears to provide.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and didn’t even had the strength to be horrified at the display. His hair curled messily, his eyes were red and swollen, still wet somehow, and his nose too had reddened a fair bit around the nostrils. His skin was still moist in places, flushed and sticky, and his entire face was still frowning in pain amidst the exhaustion. He felt himself trembling and had to close his eyes and turn his back to the sight not to start sobbing again. Holding himself to the sink, he made an effort to still his breath, calm down, and finally returned to the infirmary, where he shyly asked for a comb.

“Will you have a cup of tea with that?” Jabara gently proposed.

He just nodded, doing his best not to shake again. She smiled a little and went to the replicator, soon returning to him with what he’d asked for.

“I want to see them,” he said simply.

She led the way and let him in. They seemed asleep when he approached. Serene, somehow. He looked at Maniel for a moment, acknowledging that this man was the closest friend his brother ever had. And that he was now dead. He tried to console himself over the idea that the both of them at least could share this moment as some kind of shri-tal rite, but somehow, it wasn’t so comforting. It was eerie how the two men looked alike despite their belonging to different species. Their hair held the same darkness, the same sleekness, and even the disorder was similar. Glain wanted to to feel the death, take it in better, but Maniel was still an alien, and the Cardassian had to wonder if it would be extremely disrespectful to do so, like it would have been disrespectful of an alien to lay hands on a deceased Cardassian’s body. Then he figured that Maniel wasn’t an alien in this moment. He was Melekor’s closest friend, a brother almost, and Glain decided to acknowledge him as family, caressing the hair and reordering it some. His fingertips brushed the spots on the forehead and temples as he did so, and he could feel the life seeping away from the man. Glain committed this dark pattern to memory along with the entire moment, then respectfully backed off and went to sit on a chair. There, he found he still had tears to cry after all, but forbade himself to make the least sound. And when he calmed down, he simply combed his own hair in careful silence, and veiled the two friends. He did not sleep; this moment of rest wasn’t his.

Finally, Julian came into the room silently, checking the monitors to find what he’d expected. Gently, he sat a hand on Melekor’s shoulder and woke him with only a subtle touch.

“He’s gone.”

Doctor Bashir’s voice was a distant whisper, but Melekor understood the words very well. As he looked at his friend, he could  _ see _ it. Feel it. And at first that only prompted him to cling harder, to not let go.

“I have to care for his body, he needs to be put in stasis. Are you ready to let go?” Julian asked, his voice still as soft as velvet. Melekor shook his head, “Let me know when you are, okay? I’ll be over here, if you need me,” he went over to his desk, where he sat to enter notes on the case – he nodded a bit at Glain as he passed him on his way there, “You should go to him.” Glain returned a nod and got up, finding himself oddly steadier than expected. He approached his brother and ...he wasn’t entirely sure how close to stand.

“Take your time,” he whispered softly. “He’s all yours.” At least, Maniel seemed to have gone in peace. Painlessly – and Glain forbade himself to think of anything; of anyone else but Melekor.

“I’m here if you need anything, Brother…” he murmured so his voice wouldn’t betray too much emotion. His brother was all too clearly in shock, with too many thoughts passing through his mind as Julian’s words kept on echoing there.

‘ _ He’s gone. _ ’ He was gone… Why was he gone? How  _ dared _ he be gone like this – after so long, after such a short moment together! How could he just come back to life and then  _ die? _ Melekor clawed at the fabric that covered the other, made distance to glare at him, at how dead he was. He wanted to hurt him, but instead he slammed a hand into the bed’s side, red hot pain searing through his knuckles.

“You idiot!” he shouted in a way that made both Glain and Doctor Bashir skip a little, “Idiot!” he repeated, and this time he  _ did _ hit Maniel on the arm – once, twice, then three times, and then he collapsed over him, enraged cries rolling forth like the roars of a Klingon.

“Stop it, Elem!” Glain cried and tried to get in between Melekor and Maniel, getting hit in the process. As it turned out, he was much less strong than his disinhibited brother and Doctor Bashir’s help was thus most necessary to control him. Julian knew these things could happen, and was prepared with a hypospray, in case Melekor would resist, but managed to wrangle him out of the bed, and then resorted to simply holding him so tight that he couldn’t move, until he’d relaxed, and his sobs became less strong, at which point he gently handed him over to Glain’s arms, and made arrangements to beam Maniel to a stasis chamber. Once the body had been turned into sparkles and put away, he watched the Cardassians, waiting for the right moment to talk.

“If I hadn’t talked to him he wouldn’t have died,” Melekor burst into Glain’s neck, “It’s my fault! It’s my fault! It’s my fault he’s dead! All I wanted to- wanted to was to- to keep him safe… to let him know…” he hiccuped.

“I know… I know…” Glain held him. “I thought it was my fault, the other agents’ fault, and even Garak’s fault, for Enkem… But for him like for Maniel, it’s the system. We all have to sacrifice ourselves, Elem. We all do… It’s all we are, pawns in a game nobody controls anymore. I’m sorry…” he felt like his words were inadequate. “But it’s not your fault.  _ He _ gave himself away, and… maybe that’s because he wanted to be found. To be found by you. To be with you again, to let  _ you _ know… To keep  _ you _ safe… I think he betrayed his order to sacrifice himself to you… You have suffered all those years of silence. He too must have suffered.” It was a comforting concept, and Melekor indulged in it even though he didn’t believe in it. Just in that short moment, it didn’t matter what was true and what wasn’t, only what comforted him, and what didn’t.

“I’d like the both of you to go to your quarters and have some rest,” Julian said softly, “Take this along, if you think you need it,” he held the hypospray in front of him, “helps you sleep,” he clarified, then continued, “I’ve been told that you should expect a security officer to come by and get your statements on what happened, sometime tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ve told them to be gentle, and I think I got my point across to Odo.”

“Thank you, Doctor, that’s ...most kind” Glain smiled weakly and Julian smiled back. “I already got your phelenaxinide hypospray back ...Last thing we need is you missing a shot, uhm?” he tried to humor Melekor. He looked at the hypospray Bashir gave him and at the man again. “Is there enough for two?” he dared ask, feeling like he might welcome the narcotic too. He simply didn’t want dreams.

“There should be, yes,” Julian reassured Glain, “Would you like me to beam you back to your quarters? For discretion.”

“Yes,” Melekor answered into Glain’s shoulder, and Julian went over to the relevant console, to make the energizing request. Not long after, the two Cardassians reappeared in the common room, where a security officer was working on collecting various items of proof, including some splinters of a bullet from the wall. It felt so eerie to be there again, after all that happened. If not for the blood and the security officer, it could have seemed like nothing happened at all. The archivist felt like he walked on empty air until he sat Melekor on the bed in their room.

“Do you want me to help you undress?” he asked his brother almost as if another person was speaking instead of him, but still with his voice and tenderness. Melekor just helped himself mechanically, only handing his clothes to let him fold them. “I suppose we’ll have to bother Garak again tomorrow,” Glain contemplated the hole and the blood stain in the jacket. A pity. The tailor wasn’t going to be so pleased, was he?

As he crawled in under the blankets, the bed felt too big, and too empty for just Melekor, as he kept going over what had happened. Ever here and there, short moments existed where he nearly got his mind off of it, but loyalty drove him back to the past, like it were the present.

Maniel Dalkar was gone. It was all too real, but felt unreal.

“Hold me,” he murmured, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m coming,” Glain reassured him, finishing to undress. He’d folded his brother’s clothes, but for once, spared himself to do so with his own, because it wasn’t so important – it could not be more important than joining and comforting the other. He took the hypospray Julian had given him and slipped under the sheets to love himself against Melekor, share the warmth with him. “I’ll always be there for you, Brother,” he promised to his ear. “Always.” Melekor turned on his side and laid an arm around Glain, holding him close. He wasn’t sure what to answer, and was on the verge of tears again.

“Make me sleep,” he asked gently – and once sleep was delivered to him, he sunk into it with great gratitude. The embrace was dark and warm.

##  * * *

Timun’s head felt like it was filled with marmalade when he woke up, and his body felt sore in places. As he came to realize, it was probably because he’d finished the night sleeping on the ground. What had happened? He looked at the bed where Savras was still asleep, spread all over the mattress, and had to come to the sorry possibility that she might have kicked him over the edge in her sleep. He chuckled and decided to go to the other room get some coffee for the both of them, but when he went to the door, it didn’t open. He tried pressing the switch a number of times, then gave up and went back to the bed instead, sitting next to his lover and softly whistling a little tune of a classic Trillian love song. As she started to wake up, the notes shifted into words on his tongue.

 

“ _ And what is space, _

_ Worth in the end, _

_ When all our love cannot fit in? _

_ When all I need is my darlin’ _

_ The only place, _

_ Is by your side. _ ”   
  


Savras hummed a little as she woke up; Timun’s voice was sweet and soft, and she smiled at him before she even saw him.

“I thought I told you to sleep on the floor like the dog you are,” she murmured in a crackled voice, but reached out a hand to his face nevertheless, stroking fingertips over his cheek as she got up, kissed him and then indulged in a hug – she felt a bit bruised, probably because she was, but she didn’t mind the feeling; it was akin to the soreness that followed a good work out procedure. “Why didn’t you make me breakfast yet?” she followed up to ask, a bit cheeky. There, Timun explained their predicament, and Savras figured she really would have to teach him a thing or two about engineering if he wasn’t even capable of opening a door.

But as it turned out, the computer refused to unlock it without a clearance code she didn’t possess, and while she could deactivate the forcefield baring it, the one protecting the door’s manual override stayed in place. They were locked in. Left with no other choice, they had to contact station security and wait for the dispatched tech team to hopefully free them.

“I’ve got a very creeping feeling that something did happen tonight,” Timun went back to sit next to Savras. “And I suppose it might be my fault as well…” he tried to swallow. “Why did I have to go to Bajor and see that stupid priest? I could have just been fine telling the other one to pass him the message, and nobody would have ever figured anything about Maniel… Or maybe it’s good I did, maybe it spared us… I don’t know…” he rubbed her back as to comfort her, even though he was the one who was anxious.

“Lykes, babe,” Savras leaned against him and laid an arm around him, “stop worrying. I bet Melekor stayed up all night waiting for something that didn’t happen, and that he then overslept once he finally fell asleep. And because of this, he didn’t let us out yet.”

It was a more reassuring idea, and so Timun decided to believe it. After all, it was illogical and very un-Vulcan to worry. All that existed were facts, and the fact for him now was that he was locked up in a room with Savras. The only thing he could do was to enjoy the moment and care for her. To make time pass more pleasantly, he offered her a massage and focused on relieving her muscles from the soreness left by the night.

 

Meanwhile, deputy Kamar Tahnis led the way to the quarters. “I can’t believe you didn’t check out those quarters more thoroughly!” he scolded Mignas, walking by his side.

“And  _ how _ exactly could I know they’d modified the systems?” the young man complained to the other.

“They’re fucking Cardassians!” Kamar glared at him. “And one of them is an engineer!”

“That doesn’t mean they would necessarily traffic everything, does it? And I was sent to investigate the crime scene, which was the living room.”

“The living room? And you don’t think for a second that it would have been worth it to take a look at the rest?” Mignas didn’t answer. It wasn’t an argument he was going to win.

At last they reached the door and came in. Nobody at sight. “You go unlock that door, I go get the spoonheads,” Kamar strode in.

“I think you want to try the other door, actually,” Mignas corrected him, chuckling inside and setting himself to inspect the panels. Kamar glared at him but said nothing, changing direction. He didn’t chime; he just came in and required the computed to turn on the lights. He had a second of regret when he saw the two Cardassian men sleeping entwined and probably naked under the bedsheets.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat as they woke up. “You are to come with me,” he just said. “Now.” He hesitated and added, “If you have the clearance to unlock the door of the other room, there are persons in there who would like to get out quickly.”

“The code is  _ Four Seven Six Green Mountain Three Liquid Maximum Fifty Three Alpha Conductor _ ,” Melekor groaned. He didn’t want to wake up – his head felt crushed, and his chest hurt worse than it ever had and he simply curled closer to Glain, hiding in the warmth and relative darkness of his neck.

“Four Seven Six Green…” Kamar repeated, trying to remember all of it (he had to make Melekor repeat it two times). “Get up and get dressed,” he then ordered before striding out to give the code to the computer. He got it a bit jumbled before getting right on the fifth try. That was the weirdest code he’d ever gotten.

“Wouldn’t have cracked that one so easily,” Mignas commented as the door finally opened. “Hi there, you’re free,” he told to the two persons inside. The Vulcan-Trill jolted off the bed at once.

“Where are the others? Are they alright?”

“They’re getting dressed, I  _ hope _ ,” Kamar answered. “I guess we’ll have to get you two to the security office  _ again _ …”

“I thought the frail Cardassian told Constable Odo that it wasn’t the Vul-  _ your _ fault,” Mignas cared to correct his language in front of Timun.

“He only said it wasn’t him who harmed the other Cardassian,” the other Bajoran rectified.

“Wait, he  _ was _ harmed!? Melekor? Did… What happened!?” Timun pressed the questions. “Is he  _ safe _ now!?”

“He’s safe,” Kamar insisted. “Just get ready so I can take you all to custody.”

“Let us have a shower first, please…” Savras frowned at them. “We just had some pon’farr here; not taking a shower before leaving would be unhygienic – last time, we were left in that cell for well over eight hours. I don’t think I’d stand being locked up for that long this time – can’t you just talk to us here, anyway?”

Before either deputy could answer, Melekor intruded to ask the couple if they were going to press charges, which they weren’t willing to. They both looked at the Cardassian as if he might be about to fall to pieces.

“If they’re not pressing charges, can we stay here?” Melekor just asked the security personnel, drowsily looking over at them, “Or just send someone here to talk, it’s not like we’re going to escape.” Mignas said nothing at first, but Kamar could see he was siding with “the Cardassians.”

“They don’t look to be in great shape,” the youth finally pointed while the couple disappeared in the bathroom.

“They’re fine enough to walk, and Constable Odo prefers to have his computer at hand to write depositions and consult the data,” Kamar held his line.

“But we had them in custody yesterday and Gul Dukat-”

“What are you!? A collaborator!?” he glared at Mignas.

“No, I’m a deputy, and I joined station security to ensure peace, and that war doesn’t start again,” the young Bajoran denied. “I was only suggesting that the Constable might make an exception to his routine to accommodate the orders he received from Commander Sisko. But maybe we should ask him directly what he wishes.” Fire shone in Kamar’s eyes.

“Get back to work. I’ll handle this myself,” he took one step away to hit his combadge and joined his superior who quickly scolded him, reminding him the case was a  _ Trillian _ matter and that Lieutenant Ryx would interrogate the suspect as soon as she’d be done with her current… whatever she was doing at the moment. In the meanwhile, a Starfleet engineer came over to evaluate the system alterations performed by Melekor, and since the Cardassian had nothing better to do and preferred to keep his  mind occupied, he assisted in showing what he’d done where and how to undo it.

“I just... edited things a little,” the Cardassian tried to defend himself, “And it wasn’t to undermine anyone, so – it doesn’t count as sabotage. Does it?”

“Indeed,” the goldshirt agreed. “Then it might rather fall under unauthorized alteration of station systems and hacking, but given the circumstances, I cannot make a clear jurisdictional diagnosis; the station is Bajoran, the engineering staff directed by Starfleet, the matter that occurred here is Trillian…” he listed.

“I tell you,” Mignas shrugged, “it’s how it is here, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and yet it doesn’t explode that often. Does show that there’s still hope for us all to get along well.”

 

After about an hour and a half, not only were the systems restored, but everybody had had more than enough time to have breakfast and get a bit restless while waiting for Ryx. When she finally arrived, it wasn’t much more of a relief however. She was clearly annoyed to be doing room service instead of having her suspects in detention – and they were very suspicious this time. Given the fact that Timun was worried about his daughter, she decided to interrogate him first again and dispatched the others to either bedrooms. The Vulcan-Trill’s audition was to be the longest one again, as the young man was being quite talkative in hope this case wouldn’t put a short end to his project of joining Starfleet. Lemia Ryx didn’t hold any hopes for him in that regard, already quite certain the poor sod would end up blacklisted, but she didn’t voice her opinion, simply going over the questions. Had she known that the Cardassians had the means to monitor what went on in the main room, she would probably have had a guard watch them.

“If she asks about Maniel… tell her that his real name is Nakam Nar,” Melekor told his brother, “and that any other name is just a stolen identity,” he closed his eyes and sighed deeply, “They’ll likely run DNA scans and figure out the truth for themselves, but… by then, I plan on being in Cardassian space, and they’ll have a harder time to pursue me then.”

“Nakam Nar…” Glain repeated softly. “Is it a real person?” he dared ask.

“Was,” Melekor reached out to hold Glain’s hand and squeeze it a little, “he and  _ Lemia Ryx _ ,” he hissed her name, “they didn’t like each other, but they still entered Starfleet Academy together. He died in the battle against the Borg while she wasn’t even on duty,” he looked at Glain’s fingers, “It’s always the good ones who die.”

“Does that mean we’re bad persons for being still alive?” Glain had to wonder. He thought of how his father called him a disappointment and his shoulders slumped a bit.

“You’re not a bad person, Glain, and I prefer you alive. I don’t want to lose y-” the monitor next to the bed was flashing, signaling an incoming call. Sighing, Melekor answered it, just to see his mother appear on screen, worried and quick to throw advice at him to delay procedures and avoid carrying “troubles” over to Cardassia.

“I’m already  _ in _ trouble, and I don’t think it’ll be any more flattering if I try to worm my way out of a situation I put myself in in the first place!” Melekor pointed and ended the transmission, ignoring the renewed blinking at the display. In a way, Glain was glad he didn’t answer the call himself.

“There, the program’s running,” he informed his brother. “We can read the transcript of what they’re saying out there,” he set his display PADD in between them so they could both read. The first thing in the transcript that jumped to their eyes was a line from Ryx; “ _ I find it very suspicious, Mister Lykes, how your father and this man you call Maniel have both been abducted in the same fashion. _ ”

He was gone and he’d been  _ abducted _ . Or, rather, his corpse had. No doubt the Ra’Shakiin had claimed him back, and erased all records – perhaps they’d even be thoughtful enough to erase this entire ordeal, though Melekor wasn’t sure about their range of intellectual weaponry.

“There has to be some biomedical secrets the Ra’Shakiin needs to protect,” was Glain’s immediate conclusion, “They couldn’t let anyone perform an autopsy.” Melekor felt nauseated at the idea. That someone, anyone, would perform an autopsy on Maniel, when he was… so defenseless now, so small, and so at the mercy of the world. That he’d be taken away, and…

“Glain, please...” Melekor gulped, “I don’t want to think about it.”

“I’m sorry…” Glain rubbed his back and decided to change the topic entirely. “I suppose Iltarel is right. I always think and speak too much,” he gave a sorry smile. “I should probably listen to him more…”

“You seem to have a lot of friends,” Melekor turned to Glain, “back in Cardassia... unless you don’t consider them friends. There are other means of socializing,” he thought of his friends, his allies, and sighed, “What are they like? Do you think they’d accept me?”

“Some are friends, others are acquaintances,” Glain nodded. “I’m acquainted with a number of men, and consider a number of women as friends. My deeper friendships mostly date from Institute years however, and are mostly male ones, like Iltarel, Sleen and Sulek.” He paused, thinking about the other question. When his father first told him of Melekor, Glain had first imagined his friends would be horrified and disgusted, or feel sorry for him, at best. Now… “I honestly don’t know what they’ll think of you,” he had to admit. “I suppose some of them won’t approve, others won’t care so much, and I have a feeling I’ll be surprised to find out which of them belong to which category,” he shrugged a little. “Except Iltarel. I know he’ll accept you,” he smiled. Melekor tried to relax at the notion.

Thinking of Cardassia felt somewhat better than having to read Timun’s blasphemous words as he told Ryx of all the details, all the intimate things that happened between them, the things Melekor never wished anyone would know about – especially not  _ Lemia Ryx _ , of all people. A victimized Vulcan-Trill asshole and a child bully, what a pair next door. He didn’t want to have to face her again – as children, she’d tormented him. As teenagers, he’d been the one to land his fists on her as Nakam, Torim and Maniel held her still for that cold dish of revenge. It’d been the only time Lemia met Maniel. She likely never got around learning his name, and in a way. Melekor was thankful she never did. Did Maniel already love him then? Was it why he’d helped to…?

It was best not to think about it.

Anxiously, they waited until Timun’s interrogation ended and Savras’s began. That was was vastly underwhelming.

“ _ Here, _ ” Ryx shuffled something, “ _ if you have collected anything of use, write it down. Then hand me back the PADD and go about your business. _ ”

“ _ There was a call, _ ” Savras said, “ _ But it was over an encrypted channel, so it’s not recorded. _ ” Ryx sighed loudly.

“ _ I told you to  _ **_write_ ** _ it for a reason, now go ahead. _ ” Then silence followed.

“That Lieutenant, she might have figured we might be listening…” Glain murmured and set up to add some extra protection to access the data in case they’d like to investigate his PADDs. After some twenty minutes, Ryx finally spoke again, “ _ I think I’ll take Glain Rokat next. _ ”

The young man held his brother’s face, nuzzled his nose and left at last to join the living room, getting himself a cup of tea from the replicator before sitting in front of the woman.

“Mister Rokat,” Ryx greeted him and fidgeted her PADD a little, “who is Maniel?” He smiled and offered the answer Melekor had told him to. She didn’t buy it, clearly, but didn’t say. “We are working to identify the deceased, Mister Rokat. The corpse has been beamed out of the infirmary, and all data collected on him... more than wiped. There aren’t even ghosts of files left there,” she smiled a slanted smile. At that, the archivist reacted.

“Are you  _ certain _ there aren’t any remnants? Not even in the quarantine memory cores? If the infirmary’s computers are using the Cardassian systems, there should be automatic server backups in auxiliary systems  _ unless _ those were deactivated by some brilliant engineer who thinks backups are overrated.”

“Yes, I am certain. Those were searched through, and empty too. Whoever did this were very thorough – it is not the case of Starfleet being...  _ brilliant _ as you phrase it.”

“Now that is really quite surprising,” he thinned his eyes. “Are you certain those files existed in the first place? Because it’s well known that the best way of making archivists lose their time is to make them search for files that never were created to begin with.”

“You seem awfully knowledgeable about this, Mister Rokat,” Ryx muttered with equally thinning eyes. She wondered if anyone had ever told this Cardassian that he spoke way too much for his own good, “Now, you will tell me what you think about Savras Wayan.”

“She’s a Trill woman. I have no interest in Trill women,” he answered with disdain. Ryx wasn’t too pleased but didn’t press him for detail, iterating the same question about Timun Lykes, which he answered with similar bluntness, “I don’t care about Vulcan-Trill doctors either, though I appreciate that he saved my Cardassian friend’s life. But to be frank, I believe I spent more time with his daughter than with him. She’s an entertaining child.”

“You went to Bajor with him. What did he do there?” Ryx pursued anyway.

“Ethical tourism, spoke with the locals, gave health check-ups to children, saved Melekor’s life…” he shrugged. “The usual, I guess.”

“So he did not in fact mindmeld with a priest  _ and  _ Melekor, to discern the identity of the now-deceased, unidentified missing person?” Ryx asked more directly, even though, again, it was quite against her professional senses.

“I’m not enough of an expert in Vulcans to identify a mindmeld that isn’t performed on me – and even if it  _ were _ performed on me, I’m not sure I would know. He might have done it, maybe. I can’t confirm any of those allegations.” She could tell he was playing the idiot, and it was really damn frustrating.

“Mister Rokat, you and Timun Lykes have vastly conflicting stories. Could you explain to me why that is?”

“I’m not the investigator, I wouldn’t know. Or are you implying again that he lied?” he asked and sighed. “Maybe he did… And I thought Vulcans never lied… But true, he’s half-Trill. Do Trills lie?” he looked at her about candidly.

“What’s your relationship with Melekor Kel?” Ryx asked instead, studying the other’s reaction closely.

“We’re friends,” he smiled and looked down the table, allowing himself to flush just a little.

“How come you are on the station?” Ryx noted in her PADD.

“I wanted to see the wormhole open,” he looked at the table more instantly, blushing some more and finally chuckling. Ryx laid her PADD down and gave Glain an unamused look.

“That’s disgusting,” she pointed out to him, then shook her head, “besides, I didn’t think you were into non-Cardassians.”

“If you say the wormhole is disgusting, you might offend the Bajorans, Lieutenant. That’s where their  _ gods _ live,” Glain evaded the question.

“Okay,” Ryx simply shook her head, “I guess that is all the questions I have for you for now. You may leave these quarters.”

“You’ll have to get me stunned in order to do so, and I doubt Central Command would approve of me being treated in such a manner. My friend is in poor condition and I will  _ not _ let him face you  _ alone _ ,” he looked at her very seriously and  pinned himself on the chair, stiffening in refusal to move.

“I could just forcefully have you beamed to a holding cell,” Ryx pointed out, her eyebrows rising, “Maybe the Central Command won’t like it, but I bet they wouldn’t appreciate being  _ bothered _ by something so minuscule. I hate to think of what would happen to your reputation... weren’t you already in trouble with them once?”

“I would be more concerned about the political consequences, if I were you. The peace between Cardassia and Bajor is still very frail, and this is a Bajoran space station. Maybe the commander of this station should have say about how a Cardassian citizen is being handled here? And Kel is in no medical condition to be interrogated and I do not trust you to require medical advice. I know what you’ve done to him when you were children, and if you’ve grown to be deserving of that shirt, you know it would be unprofessional of you to order him to sit in front of you, alone, without any sort of support.  _ You _ should even be considered too close to him to even perform this interrogation. I believe this isn’t even legal.”

“It all happened so long ago that it is no longer considered relevant by the Trillian Justice System. And this is a Trillian matter, not a Starfleet matter,” she smiled pleasantly, “I have my orders, you are free to cross-check with my government – Mister Kel,” she turned her attention to Melekor, who had come into the room, walking slowly and not looking at her, “please, have a seat.” He did as she asked, sitting next to Glain, and then looking up at her.

“My relationship to Timun Lykes was a mistake of the intimate nature; rape, if you so wish to label it. I consider him to be a lying, traitorous, manipulative bitch capable of great cruelty,” he licked his lips and continued in monotony, “My relationship with Savras Wayan is friendship; we have worked together for well over five years. I consider her to be loyal, caring, fierce, intelligent and idealistic. My relationship to Glain Rokat, is...” he glanced at him, “we’re lovers. I intend on taking a female Cardassian role, and move to Cardassia to live with him as his wife. We have corresponded via subspace for two and a half year, setting up this deal. I consider him to be faithful, talkative, sweet, caring and an intellectual.” He swallowed again and continued, “Nakam Nar was my friend all through school. I believe you are already familiar with him. When I found out he hadn’t died in the skirmish against the Borg, I made it my mission to find him. And I did,” he stared at her, “he’d changed his face, but not his heart. Now, he’s dead again, and we’re having this conversation, and quite frankly, all I want to do is punch your pale-ass face in, so if we could end this interview early, I’d be grateful.” Ryx stared at him, getting paler with each word spoken.

“A-and what’s your opinion on Doctor Julian Bashir?” she asked.

“He’s a competent doctor. He’s the one who found out my mother had me altered at birth, to appear more male. I am actually female,” he answered her, which made her so confused she nearly didn’t know where to continue her investigation.

“What about Garak, the tailor?” she hurried on. Melekor smirked.

“He’s the one who set me up with Glain. Quite a matchmaker, he has a good eye for details. If he wasn’t opposed to having relationships at all, I would’ve asked  _ him _ to enjoin me,” he took another breath, then continued, “He’s the first Cardassian I ever met, and as dear to me as a brother. If you consider hurting him, I’d advise you not to. He’s got a shitty enough life on this Guardian’s forsaken station as it is.”

“Why did you perform the alterations to this room?”

“Because I knew Nakam Nar was following Savras Wayan, and I wanted to catch him. Can you blame me? I wanted to talk to my friend – I never wanted him dead. He shot me,” he gesticulated to his shoulder, “as was his duty. And I don’t give a fuck if you believe in the Ra’Shakiin or not, because I do. And I have nothing further to say to you. Please. Terminate the interview.” Ryx looked at her PADD, then at Glain, then at Melekor.

“I... will have to get back to you when you’re less upset,” she gathered as she got up. Melekor grinned.

“You’ll have the same answers then. Just do your job, and quit wasting time on interrogations-”

“Hearings, Mister Kel-”

“Don’t call me that!” He’d gotten to his feet and slammed his hand on the table, “Don’t you  _ DARE _ be  _ CIVIL _ to me! Use my  _ NAME _ , Lemia. Use my  _ DAMN NAME! _ ” She just shook her head, and turned around, leaving the room and the two Cardassians behind. Melekor sunk down in his chair and stared at the table and the closed doors, and Glain stared at Melekor, wide-eyed.

“You’ve done good…” he caressed his brother’s back. “You did it… It’s over,” he gulped. “Would you like something to drink? Or something to eat… We should probably ingest something.” Melekor shook his head and leaned his elbows on the table, and his head against the edge of it, between his elbows.

“I need to call Garak,” he muttered and got up and over to a panel, frantically pressing the buttons until the call was made. Once Garak answered, he interjected him with a quick, “I’m marrying Glain, you set us up, you’re a matchmaker,” before he shut the signal again, hoping it wouldn’t leave him too mentally fucked up. In his workshop, the tailor nodded to himself.

“The extent of my skills never ceases to amaze me,” he merely commented and delved back in his exploration. There  _ had _ to be a remnant of those files. It would be highly concerning if even  _ he _ couldn’t find any, and quite a violation of what he considered to be his personal digital territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if you got sads, please tell us ; u ;)


	34. Day 28 - II

When Nysar got the bag from the neighbour, she figured she wouldn’t have to break in Savras’s flat after all. There was all she needed. All Savras needed. She paid the woman quite graciously for her help before getting back on her way with Qanaak. He tried to talk to her, but she told him to shut up. Eventually, they just listened to music in silence, running through a library of Terran music, including some ancient Earth tunes that no-doubt reminded the Klingon of his days at Starfleet Academy – most of that music was  _ really bad _ but Nysar endured.

Stars. Blackness. Occasionally they sensed some ships in the distance. Cloaked, they were left untroubled and finally reached the station, decloaking just a little before getting in sensor range. They were allowed to dock in a shuttlebay and could finally make their way down to the Promenade. Qanaak led the way to the Replimat and there they found Timun, Savras and Dzi.

“Momma!” the little girl ran to her as soon as she caught sight of her. She was echoed by her older brother who threw himself in their mother’s arms.

“I’m glad you’re happy to see me…” she blinked a bit, feeling him meld at once.

_ “Melekor’s friend who was supposed to be dead but wasn’t came and somehow he died in the night and then was beamed away and all the files about him have been erased, and we’ve been interrogated again this morning! I want to leave!!” _ he mentally cried. She patted his back.

“Well, let me greet my daughter and my future daughter-in-law, will you?” she smiled and took Dziana in her arms instead. “How do you feel, little brown sugar?”

“Garak finished my dress!” she tried to show her clothes.

“You look sublime,” Nysar smiled and sat at the table with her child. She threw bit of a look at her son and Qanaak who were hugging each other with so much emotion it was almost indecent. “If I were you, I’d beware of that Klingon around your husband-to-be,” she advised to Savras.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I fought a Klingon over a hottie,” Savras answered as she put down her cup of coffee, “I usually win, too,” she elaborated, “and he looks like he’d be no match for me.” Nysar agreed with a little smile.

“Get me a plomeek soup,” she passed her PADD to her daughter, “and get yourself something if you’d like.” Qanaak would have to get something for himself  _ on his own _ . “He doesn’t even claim to be a Klingon warrior,” she told Savras.

“His family must be very disappointed,” Savras shook her head a little at the concept of a Klingon who  _ wouldn’t _ refer to himself as a warrior.

“I’m not just a Klingon,” Qanaak went to sit at the table with a plate of fries accompanying a vol-au-vent, and a diabolo menthe, “I’m Trillian and a citizen of the United Federation of Planets,” he told proudly. “I was born on Trill, near the Klingon Embassy, where my parents worked ...as cleaners,” he had to specify. “They were still Klingon warriors, engaged in an endless fight with dust bunnies, and probably a bit of a disappointment on their homeworld. Either way, my admittance to Starfleet was advancement for them. My mother even was promoted as secretary to one of the ambassadors, and my father became a fine gardener – I believe he always was a lot more skilled with a secateur than with a bat’leth. He’s the one who cuts the evergreen bushes in the shape of prominent Klingon political figures,” he shared for Savras.

“A damn fine job,” Timun agreed with remnants of emotion. “Have you ever seen them? You’ve been into politics and Klingons after all, one could argue it’s practically being into Klingon politics,” he joked – Qanaak threw him bit of a look, but was amused enough.

“Joke aside,” Nysar interrupted, “I brought your things. Your neighbour did a good job, I wouldn’t have picked them better myself. You’ll find everything in the ship,” she told Savras before letting the conversation get back to its flow. The Vulcan was quick to pick Savras’s intentions as she tried to provoke the Klingon (most efficiently so by stealing his fries), and, logically, she discreetly sided with the exiled woman who was to marry her son. Qanaak however didn’t intend to get sidetracked to detention for the exact same kind of outburst that terminated his Starfleet career, opting to go sit at another table to protect his fries in a non-violent way. Savras didn’t care to hide her frustration, nor her distaste for the man’s lack of combativity.

“May I?” Nysar decided to reach for her hand, as to ask for an authorization to meld. Savras raised an eyebrow and took it.  _ “I wouldn’t recommend you to go on this ship without him. You are an exilee. This ship isn’t a Klingon military ship. Qanaak isn’t part of the military either. The cloaking device aboard is illegal,” _ the Vulcan revealed.

_ “You said it yourself; I’m exiled – illegal – and so is the cloaking device. I think I’ll do fine without him. I don’t trust men whose loyalty I can’t gain, and how do you gain the respect of a Klingon who will not let you prove yourself?” _ She sighed and shook her head, glancing at the table where the Klingon was eating alone. A cloaking device wouldn’t be too bad, but she couldn’t help but to wonder what would happen if her  _ friends _ got their hands on one. And if she was going to infiltrate them, she’d have to pretty much hand it over to them, she was pretty sure. “Excuse me for a moment,” she muttered as she got up and walked over to the Klingon, sitting down opposite to him with a serious expression, “What do you even expect to accomplish? Do you even know who you are looking for?”

“I don’t know who, but I know where,” he answered. “If you try to steal from my plate again, I will plant my fork in your arm,” he threatened seriously before continuing. “I don’t know who were the people Jaden was meeting, but I have the coordinates of the places we’ve been to, and I intend to visit them until I find someone. And when I do, I’ll make them  _ speak _ .”

“Ha! Good luck,” Savras dished out with sarcasm, both to the fork-threat and to the ‘plan,’ “What if I told you I know who did it?” she continued dangerously, “Not that I think you  _ should _ go after them. Especially not since Jaden is one of them. If he wanted you on his trail, he’d sent for you. Face it, Qanaak; he used you.”

“Maybe Jaden did, but Mynx gave me a purpose. I would rather die finding him than turn my back on him,” he replied stubbornly. “And  _ you _ are very bad at manipulation. Are you expecting me to let you take my ship and carry out my mission for me?” he thinned his eyes. “Oh, it’s a fine ship and you would not be the first one to want to lay hands on it, but I have taken certain precautions against thieves.  _ Believe me _ , you do not want to try this one. And I’m not the sort of Klingon who ends up in detention or indebted over a bet or gamble. I  _ pick _ my fights, and I prefer to wage them from the cockpit of a starship.” Certain people made it difficult for Savras to refrain from hitting them. Qaanak was one of those people.

“How about I tell Starfleet about your illegal cloaking device?” she slammed a hand on the table, “Or perhaps you’ve got enough of a silver tongue to slither your way out of that too, hm? You want to put it to the test? Because I can arrange that.”

“And where will that get you? Maybe you can get me to detention, but believe me, there will be no proof to be found, I’ll have to be released, and you still won’t have a ship,” he promised. “ _ But _ if you would like to go with me,  _ maybe _ we could ally. However, just because you are to be Timun’s wife does not mean I trust you. And you do not trust me either ...which I appreciate,” he reckoned. “You’re not stupid, and I sense braveness and courage in you. But if you want a place on my ship, you’re going to have to fight for it.” Savras regarded Qanaak for a while, then leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Fine – but if I win, you are the one who follows  _ my _ command,” she stated her terms, “and I do not intend on going easy on you, just because you don’t like being angry.”

“I do not intend on going easy on you just because you are dear to my friend,” he flattered her back. “I’ll take you on a fight. With weapons if the holosuite is available, unarmed if that is not the case.”

“I hope you lose,” Nysar said as she approached. “And I bet you a bottle of Seskame Port that you will.” The Klingon frowned, offended. “It might do you good however. You’re an engineer, not a leader, and you make poor choices,” the woman pointed. “Jaden might be dead. Another man died last night. You could be the next if you’re not careful.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, only advice. Tell me, Qanaak, where were you when my husband was being butchered by terrorists?”

“I told you, I was driving the Ferengi other places,” he diverted his gaze.

“Do you have any idea why he didn’t request your help? This is a fine ship after all… a  _ very _ fine ship,” she hinted. The Klingon paused for a moment.

“I theorized that if those people were criminals of sorts, maybe he didn’t want to risk allowing them to acquire the onboard  _ technology _ in case it would backfire on him.”

“Brilliant. And now, are you taking the chance of this happening, or are you going to set that device offline completely and get rid of it?” Nysar crossed her arms. He glared at her.

“Don’t take me for an idiot. You’re on for the bet. A bottle of Seskame Port.”

“Good. I’ll probably start drinking before the fight ends,” she grinned, “because you’ll lose, wimp, son of a wimp.” That said, she let them go put a reservation on a holosuite at Quark’s. The Ferengi wasn’t too glad to see him coming, and even least when he was told that, of course, they were interested in a fight training program.

“You can come in one hour and a half,” he told, “but you leave the securities  _ on _ and try not to destroy the entire suite.”

“Have I ever damaged your holosuite?” the Klingon asked.

“Somehow, I’m more concerned about her,” he looked at Savras. “I mean no offense, of course,” he glanced back at Qanaak, “but I know what Trill women can do during this program.”

##  * * *

Ywanna could well understand why her son wouldn’t want company after what he’d gone through, but that didn’t mean he didn’t  _ need _ company. She’d tried contacting the head investigator, Lemia Ryx, to speak to her, but she’d sent her Odo instead, and neither of them had much to say to one-another – he didn’t know the case very well, and she wasn’t sufficiently involved to be considered an important figure. Therefore, the door chime was unexpected – she could sense the person on the other side, well enough to establish it wasn’t anyone she was familiar with. As the doors opened, she’d expected to see some official personnel, and was surprised to find a civilian instead.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad moment, Miss...?”

“Lykes,” Nysar answered. “I apologize if I intrude, but I have grown somewhat worried due to recent events,” she said but shielded her mind as a matter of caution. “I understand you are a mother too and thought you might welcome a moment of respite with a person who can relate a little, even if we are strangers so far,” she politely offered. “As I understand it, our sons aren’t on the best terms at the moment but will still travel together.”

“And you want me to convince them to get along?” Ywanna rose an eyebrow, “I only have so much control over my son, and he’s very unruly recently. But, ah, come in,” she walked into the room and gesticulated towards the table. Her black carpet with the silver ring laid on the floor further away, and dreamy blue curtains hung from the ceiling and walls, and even the replicator was ornamented by textiles, “Ancient Betazoid meditation techniques require inspiring surroundings,” she explained as an answer to the questions that might be multiplying in her visitor’s head, “it’s been a blue month.”

“Fascinating,” Nysar appreciated the decoration. “I usually rely on olfactive decoration for meditation,” she shared as she sat at the table while Ywanna went to replicate two glasses of water. “I haven’t come to ask of you to make our unruly sons get along however. If it were possible, I suppose you would have made it happen already. I know Timun can be reckless enough to drive wrecked hovercrafts off cliffs and come out of this alive  _ repeatedly _ ; he’s only a bit  _ too _ eager to help others, and it has a tendency to backfire on him. But I believe he’s figured it is best for him to keep his distance from your son, though I wish he’d understood this sooner.” she told apologetically. “But may I ask your opinion considering the woman he’s just betrothed himself to? I believe you know her some more. Savras Wayan,” she smiled. “I still ignore the reason of her exile, but I wonder if she’s more than just a conspiracy theorist?” Ywanna sipped her water and looked at Nysar while she gathered the words in her head.

“Of course she’s more than just a conspiracy theorist – she’s my son’s longest lasting friend,  _ and _ she’s an ex-politician. A bit too argumentative for her own good,” she nodded her head to the left, “So she fancies your son? Good for him. She’ll be useful to his safety once they get to Cardassia. That, or get him in troubles, with what that mouth of hers.”

“Oh, she’s not going with them,” Nysar denied casually. “She hasn’t told you?”

“She might be assigned to these quarters, but she’s been staying with your son since our arrival here, a choice which I think we can both agree is understandable, in light of the circumstances.” Ywanna took another sip of the water as she thought about what she was going to say next. “I think Wayan might be under the impression that it is  _ my _ fault she was exiled from Trill. It’s unfortunate, though I guess timing wasn’t very kind to me in that regard – she was expulsed only a matter of days after  _ her _ trial against me failed. At any rate, I am not sure she’s forgiven me the humiliation she went through losing that case, so I am not surprised she wouldn’t tell me of her change of plans. She’s her own person, after all.”

“I heard of that story indeed,” Nysar nodded. “That she lost the case should mean her allegations against you were incorrect, but I have come to know that Trillian justice isn’t a most exact institution. I suppose we’ll never know what happened, and maybe the both of you were simply victims of more unfortunate circumstances,” she hypothesized. “A thing I learned is that there is no truth in this universe, only perception, lies and deceit,” she gave her glass a dramatic look. “I suppose they make our lives more ...incidental.” She allowed herself to smile. “Tell me, Miss Kel, would you care to let me pay you a drink at Quark’s? I’m winning a bottle of Seskame Port through Savras, but she’s a little busy at the moment, which leaves me with a son who is allergic to alcohol and an eight-year old daughter who clearly is not allowed to drink. If you’d be my guest, I could hopefully entertain you a little while discussing your writings – I read some of your books recently,” she confessed, “you do have talent. And an adventurous spirit I can only appreciate.”

“That is not an altogether bad idea,” Ywanna agreed with enthusiasm, “I was in the need of some socializing anyway, and I can’t think of any better way to spend the energy. Just let me change into a different dress, this one isn’t for leaving the quarters in,” she gesticulated to her overly cozy outfit, “if you go on ahead, I’ll be with you shortly.”

“I’ll wait outside,” the Vulcan agreed with a warmer smile, and did as she said. Ywanna Kel seemed like a nice person after all. Nice, and probably dangerous, but Nysar had since long learned to live on the edge and made an art of staying on it. All it took was a fine balance. A skill Timun yet had to learn, most unfortunately.

In the meantime, Ywanna chose a beetle black dress, rather militaristic together with the coat she picked to wear along with it. Some makeup to add to it, and the appeal was complete – it was mostly for her own sake. If you feel good, you  _ are _ good, and all that. So, she left her quarters and rejoined Nysar, hooking arms with her casually.

“It really  _ is _ a pity our sons can’t seem to get along; Melekor  _ does _ need friends if he want to last in Cardassia – it’s not a land for the loners.”

“I agree, I hoped a Cardassian friend would benefit to Timun,” Nysar sighed. “That boy is good at making friends and lovers quickly. I hope he’ll manage well enough there, though it will certainly be a lot harder. So long as he doesn’t end up in a trial and comes back mostly alive, without too much psychological trauma, I’ll consider myself happy,” she shook her head. “And you? Are you following your son to Cardassia? Timun told me you were interested to give him some classes to control his psychic abilities some more ...I tried my best to train him, but I suspect his father’s legacy in that regard is much greater than I originally thought.”

“He  _ is _ an interesting specimen, isn’t he?” Ywanna agreed. “But I’m afraid he lost interest in what I had to offer… and I’m not sure yet whether I’ll be part of the trip to Cardassia or not,” she entered them both to the turbolift and requested access to the Promenade level, “If I think my son needs my support, I will go. As it is now, I think he does – he doesn’t know the first thing about Cardassian society. I strictly forbade him to look up his family, because no Cardassian would  _ want _ to have a half-breed relative running around ruining their reputation. But Melekor? He listens to his heart, not his brain.” Nysar nodded in empathy.

“That’s why I taught my son to lock his emotions in a Vulcan way. It’s still a good safeguard, but it has to be enforced from a young age. I don’t know if non-Vulcans are as capable of this however. My second, Jabin, is more Trill in physiology, and not as successful in this exercise,” she told. “Thankfully,  _ he _ uses his brain a lot more than his brother. Timun doesn’t like the idea, but I think he inherited a lot of his temper from his father after all,” she snickered. “Is it the same for Melekor? I’m curious, I’ve never met a Cardassian. Are they really good at controlling their emotions?”

“As a species, especially males and dominant females tend to have hot tempers – impulsive, for some of them. There are some who are more withdrawn, but they  _ are _ a minority, in part because aggression is part of courting,” she shrugged a bit and added, “ _ Most _ of them are very well controlled and contained. As for his father, I still am not sure whom of them really sired him... could be any of the men I seduced,” she smirked. Whether it was true or not, Nysar couldn’t figure, but she wasn’t even trying to guess.

“It sounds like you enjoyed yourself,” she smiled. “I didn’t think they were so open to such relations with aliens, but this would be good news for my son if he does enter pon’farr while he’s over there,” she jested. “I stopped being interested in men after Dziana was born. Three pregnancies were more than enough and I didn’t want to take any risk,” she shared as they went out of the turbolift.

“Tell me about it!” Ywanna laughed, “Taking care of one child was enough for me; I never was a long-term commitment kind of woman myself. Relationships can be such a distraction, and distractions are hard to afford when you make most your coin as an author.”

They entered Quark’s, where it was a bit rowdy; Morn was arguing with a Bajoran monk, and in the other end of the room, an Andorian was trying to pursue sexual relations with a dabo girl who had just left her shift at the wheel.

“Ah, bars are always such questionable places,” Ywanna commented delightfully as she picked a table for them, and sat down, “But, to get back on matter. Are Cardassians open towards relationships with aliens? Certainly not. But most of them are drawn to the secrecy and discipline required to pursue such a relationship, a  _ secret _ relationship. And since it’s an allure to them… it’s easy for an alien to get a foot in the door, so to speak,” she smirked.

“Walking on the fine edge of danger,” Nysar mimicked the other woman’s expression. “Your life must be quite exciting. Sometimes I’ve wondered how I ended up stuck on Trill for… twenty four years,” her eyes rounded from disappointment. “All the adventures I could have had… Of course, I’m still young-” she interrupted herself to order a  _ fine _ bottle of Seskame Port from the waiter who approached, telling him to debit it from Qanaak’s credits, “-if I manage to get Jabin in the hands of the Symbiosis Commission, and if Timun and Savras are up to raising Dziana for a part of the year, I guess I might have some more time for myself in just a few years,” she smiled.

“Gives you lot of time to prepare ahead,” Ywanna nodded with approval, “If you know the native language of the worlds you visit, you’re guaranteed to impress the aliens living there – and it  _ does _ have its advantages when it comes to charm – and I don’t just mean that in a romantic sort of way, no. It’s more about building trust. For a while, I considered teaching my son the native language of his father’s world, but then I figured it might tempt him to go there. Now that he seems determined to go anyway, I almost regret my choice.”

“He’ll learn just fine once he’s there; there’s no age to learn a language,” Nysar assured as the waiter set the bottle and two glasses on their table. “Timun’s been trying to learn Kardasi for a year or so, but good lexicons and manuals are hard to come by. I don’t think he’d charm anyone with basic grammar and limited vocabulary, but he’s got a universal translator anyway, and who knows…” she shrugged and lifted her glass. “What should we cheer up to? We could allow ourselves to be a bit selfish,” she grinned. “What would Ywanna Kel drink up to?”

“Why, to adventure and discovery, of course,” Ywanna raised her glass, too, “to meeting new people and indulging in new cultures,” she chimed, then drank from her glass, mimicked by the other. Then, they went onto talking of the worlds they’d visited then – Romulus and Earth, Nysar revealed.

“Befriending Terrans is easy, but somehow, it’s not the same as befriending Romulans. They open themselves to you a lot faster and so much deeper at once, but on the long run and the distance…” she gave a little shrug, “Well, they die so fast already,” she pinched her lips. “And then Jaden came to me, and I started having children. We moved to Trill when Timun was ten, and after this, I mostly returned to Romulus or Earth to either attend a friend’s wedding, child’s birth or ...a triple burial – I haven’t returned to Romulus ever since.” Ywanna gave a thoughtful frown, her lips thinning a bit in contemplation.

“I suppose I had some great experiences of travels and meeting other species, especially with the Romulans – that was before I got with child. I had less ties to uphold, more freedom in my conduct – it does help to be without responsibilities. Once you have children, you may never again represent only yourself, and that has its ups and downs,” she winced and sipped from her drink while Nysar nodded at that notion. “Not that I regret keeping Melekor,” she started again, “for all his flaws and refusal to behave, I love him for who he is, but… if I ever were to get in a pickle, as the Humans say, he’d most certainly be an element to be used against me. So I don’t think I’ll ever visit the Romulan Star Empire again either, too risky in matter of intrigue.”

“Jaden was interested to move there when I was exiled,” Nysar recalled and laughed. “That was  _ out _ of question. He was so naïve then somehow! Trill was a good choice, it’s a very beautiful world and a good place to live in. A fine choice for raising children –” Ywanna silently agreed with her. “A pity Savras had to get exiled; it would have been nice to see her and Timun getting me some grandchildren…” she smiled a little bitterly. “Ah, well, as I say,  _ a citizenship lost, a husband found! _ ” she jested. “And talking of the wolf, as they say on Earth,” she waved at Savras and Qanaak getting down the stairs. “Looks like she beat the Klingon into submission.”

“That would not surprise me,” Ywanna appreciated as she turned a bit in her chair to greet the fighters. “Ah, Savras!” she cheered and patted the chair next to her – Savras’ expression was one of badly hidden dismay, and then a tiny bit of horror when she realized who Ywanna was with. It was the kind of expression Ywanna would’ve been willing to pay for.

“Kel,” Savras greeted her, without any affection, “Nysar,” she added a bit more warmly. Beside her, Qanaak looked at the bottle of alcohol.

“I suppose this means Quark wants to see me?” – Nysar smiled brightly.

“Quark can wait,” she gestured at a waiter to bring one-? Two? Two glasses, as Savras and Qanaak chose not to oppose the awkward social moment. “I take it you lost the fight?”

“She fought bravely and won with honor,” the Klingon  engineer answered. “She is a Trill who can wield a bat’leth with the dignity it takes to hold one.” Nysar smiled brightly.

“And so the ship is yours,” she concluded, looking at Savras.

“How delightful! Where are you going?” Ywanna  _ instantly _ snooped around, just like Savras had expected.

“Through the wormhole,” she lied and took her glass, which had been filled for her, “to the unknown,” she lifted her glass, and Ywanna cheered along, even though she didn’t seem very convinced.

“Sounds reckless, and dangerous. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather accompany Melekor to Cardassia?” she interjected.

“And do what?” Savras asked with a twitch to her left eyebrow, “From what I hear, Cardassia isn’t the most healthy place to be, when you’re a freelancing digging journalist. I was exiled  _ once _ , and that’s already one time too many.”

“The Gamma quadrant, in opposite, is the perfect place for new beginnings,” Qanaak added, fluidly furthering the lies. “And new findings. There is a lot to dig about for a journalist, and the entire Alpha Quadrant is  _ dying _ to know more about the Dominion. It’s the perfect place to go to make a name, and once she returns from those adventurous travels, it will be the Federation’s turn to write about Savras Wayan, in History books.”

“Maybe you’ll even write them?” Nysar suggested to Ywanna, laughing joyfully while filling or refilling everybody’s glasses as if they were all good friends.

“Perhaps I will!” Ywanna acknowledged with a laughter, “But who are  _ you? _ ” She asked curiously to the Klingon, allowing Savras to sink into the background and try to disappear from the conversation altogether, now that the topic had shifted from herself, “I’m Ywanna Kel, traveling author.”

“I am Qanaak, son of Grehm,” the Klingon answered. “Not that you would know of him, unless you have been to the Klingon Embassy on Trill, maybe. I am an engineer and pilot, and I will be accompanying my new employer here into the uncharted darkness of the Gamma Quadrant,” he glanced at Savras. “Have you ever been through the wormhole?” he asked Ywanna. “If you want a thrilling ride, it’s even more exciting than driving in a field of asteroids during a plasma storm!” he gave her a wide, toothy grin and squeezed Savras’s shoulder. “Ah! Timun, my brother!” he suddenly caught sight of him and waved at him – Nysar bent toward Ywanna to clarify that the term ‘brother’ was only affectionate here.

“You look quite happy,” the young Vulcan-Trill noticed as he approached with Dziana. “Did you… win?”

“Unfortunately I did not have this honor,” Qanaak admitted. “But losing to this fierce warrior was no dishonor either, and I accept my fate with gratitude.”

“I knew you’d win,” Dziana went to sit on Savras’s lap and hugged her tight.

“So, you’re departing soon?” Timun dragged a chair and squeezed himself between Savras and Qanaak, while giving a puzzled look at Ywanna’s presence around the table.

“Certainly so. I’m eager to return to the Gamma quadrant,” the Klingon answered. “Timun, do you know Ywanna Kel? She’s an author, I was told.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, we know each other,” he smiled at her.

“I’m Dziana Lykes,” the little girl decided to introduce herself to the Betazoid. “You should meet my friend Terek, she’s a writer too, and she’s very good at it. She started to write a story that is staged on this space station, and it’s about the murder of a Bajoran who went missing on Terok Nor and pieces of his body are appearing in the replicators of certain quarters. The only Cardassian woman on the station, who only just arrived, is the main suspect, until doctor Bashir decides to investigate,” she told excitedly. “Then Garak-”

“Wait, did she ask for their approval before starting to include them in the story?” Timun interrupted, derailing the discussion to personal image rights – a topic Ywanna was most knowledgeable about. Savras saw there a good occasion to leave with Qanaak so they could leave as soon as possible. Eventually, since Ywanna seemed in the mood for giving advice, Nysar decided to ask her if she had any on the topic of Cardassia, to offer to Timun. The Betazoid made it clear that his status as doctor would certainly raise suspicions, that he had to expect being monitored constantly and  _ may _ be assigned to some sort of “mentor” whose role would likely be to make him talk rather than teach him anything. The bottom line was that, were he to get in any sort of trouble, the one with the most scales would always be the one to win.

“However, Mister Lykes,” she finished, “I must repeat my warning to you: do not make an enemy out of my son. He might not much look like it, but he could pose a significant danger to you on Cardassia. Make amends. Whatever you did, show him that you’re sorry. Apologize to him – even if he’s wrong, perhaps  _ especially _ if he’s wrong. Get used to that feeling, the feeling of admitting mistakes you never made – that is how you survive in Cardassia.”

##  * * *

For a good while, Qanaak just taught Savras about the controls of the ship so they could get to practice soon after departing – if it was going to be the two of them, the Klingon needed to be able to rely on her some more.

“Now, I’d like to get to programming a bit. It won’t take long, but since we’re probably going to be outnumbered by those people, I’d rather make sure they won’t find any cloaking device onboard if things were to turn sour. Jaden didn’t want them to know about it, and there must be a reason to this. I would assume he didn’t trust them,” he told as he left his seat. “He didn’t trust anyone.”

“We should get rid of it – without it, the risk wouldn’t exist at all, and besides, if we were to be boarded by St-” a knock on the ship’s door interrupted her, and she fell silent, then went to the wall to press the button to open the hatch, “Melekor?” she burst in disbelief, “What are you doing here?”

“Quark told me you’re not coming with us,” answered the Cardassian, who looked tired but tidy – he wore his black choir practice costume, and had his bag slung over his arm as usual, “I thought I’d say goodbye,” he seemed a bit stiff, “in case you die,” he added, looking over Savras’ shoulder, where he spotted the Klingon, “Are you sure you really want to go with  _ him? _ ” he asked in a much lower voice. Savras sighed.

“Else I’d have to leave him with you, would you prefer that?” she teased him, then stepped aside, “If you want, you can come in for a while. Timun will be here any moment, though,” Melekor grimaced, but stepped in – keeping his distance from the savage, which gave Qanaak a good feeling that he wasn’t welcome in the discussion.

“I’ll be working on the transporter modification,” he just said. “It’ll give us a broad array of possibilities.” Melekor looked around – he’d never been in a Klingon vessel before, and he hadn’t expected such a small one would even exist. They weren’t exactly famous for minimalism, the Klingons.

“Transporter modifications?” he asked Savras with an arched eyeridge, “Be careful with that, too much messing around and it won’t work when you need it… Quark said you were going through the wormhole. Isn’t that a bit  _ extreme? _ I mean, it isn’t exactly the gateway to a better world where problems magically go away – it’s just  _ largely unknown,  _ which, if I may say so myself, is the very opposite of a problem-free world – Savras…” he held her hands in his own, “Do you really have to?” She smiled a bit.

“I’d be more receptive to your words if it weren’t for the fact that you’re treating Cardassia the exact same way. That doesn’t mean I can’t wish you good luck – or that you couldn’t do the same for me –” Melekor winced.

“I just lost a friend, I don’t want to lose another.”

“You were fully willing to let me lose you when you decided to find your family. And I,” she continued hastily as Melekor seemed to get a bit upset at the accusation, “was willing to let you go.” He sighed but straightened up.

“So what are you doing with the transporters?” Melekor oogled after the disappeared Klingon.

“The less you know, the better,” Savras disentangled herself from his hands, “Melekor, listen. I’m not going to ask you to forgive Timun, but at least  _ try _ to get along with him. He’s a  _ good _ doctor, and a  _ good _ man, and if anyone deserves a second chance, it’s him.”

“Fortunately, it’s up to me how to regard him,” the Cardassian quipped, then went ahead into the ship, and soon found the Klingon, whom he looked at from a distance, “You’re trying to hide something, aren’t you?” he asked him rather bluntly.

“I wouldn’t say hide as much as secure the vessel,” Qanaak lied boldly, going onto a makeshift cover up of what exactly he was doing – credible enough, although Melekor could see it wasn’t exactly what he was doing and that he was lying. “For the rest, the least you know, the better it is,” Qanaak smiled. “So you’re the Cardassian engineer?” he tried to change the topic. “I’ve heard you’re quite talented. A pity we must depart so soon, really. I’ve always wanted to meet a Cardassian engineer on a friendly ground. You’re not from Cardassia however, right? I’m not from the Klingon Empire either; I’m from Trill,” he smiled, trying to appear nice and friendly. “You can call me Qanaak, and I don’t suppose you care who’s my father.”

His attempt at derailing the conversation fell flat however. Melekor  _ cared _ about Savras’s safety, and the two engineers engaged in theoretical technobabble until the Klingon mentioned his years of service in Starfleet. The Cardassian couldn’t help but take personal offense, feeling as if the other used his bragging rights to shut him down – he’d had enough of Starfleet’s poor choices of recruits lately. Lemia Ryx,  _ a Klingon _ , but not him.

“I’m glad you had a meaningful life,” he tried to make a compliment, but it came out frosty and hostile, “Since my assistance  _ clearly _ isn’t welcome, I’ll be departing,” he directed himself to Savras. “Can’t you take Lykes with you while you’re at it?” he asked her rather vehemently.

“No, I most certainly can’t – you need him more than I do,” she patted his shoulder and he recoiled.

“I don’t. I’m a Cardassian, he knows jack-shit about Cardassian medicine – you however, are planning to run into uncharted territory, and all you have to protect you is a Klingon engineer. What happens when you get attacked? Who is going to be  _ your _ doctor? The Klingon? Savras,  _ please _ ...” he glared at her.

“Your concern is touching, but I’m still fairly sure you’re just trying to get rid of him because you find him personally  _ inconvenient. _ ”

“Inconvenient?! Insufferable is more like it! It’s  _ his _ fault Maniel is dead,” Melekor pressed, Savras made an expression of ‘ _ I don’t want to discuss this, _ ’ but was forced to go there, anyway.

“I believe we’re all victims of circumstances,” she tried, but Melekor had made up his mind, and she  _ knew _ she couldn’t change it. The situation turned slightly more awkward as the Lykes came in, Nysar walking first. She stopped, a bit surprised to see the Cardassian, and that was enough for Dziana to escape her and hurry to see what Qanaak was doing although he forbade her to come too close. Melekor’s glare set on Timun, spite and anger giving a dangerous shine to his eyes.

“You’re quite some  _ fiancé _ , Lykes, aren’t you?” he hissed at his former friend, “You’d rather go to Cardassia with  _ me _ than to the Gamma quadrant with the woman you claim you love. If she dies because you chose me over her, I’ll hold you personally responsible, and I’ll make  _ sure _ you never forget it.” With those words, he turned back to Savras and gave her a quick and rather unexpected hug, before stepping back, glaring at the Klingon, too, “You’d better take good care of her. Good... luck,” he squeezed her hand, then pushed his way past the Vulcans, fully intending on simply leaving like this – Timun gave the way, practically shoving himself into the wall to make sure Melekor wouldn’t have to touch him. Nysar looked at the disappearing Cardassian, then at Savras.

“Sorry for the interruption. However, I conclude you must be  _ quite _ reckless already for him to believe you’re actually going to depart to the Gamma quadrant just like this, on a headshake.”

“Mom…” Timun set a trembling hand on her shoulder, as to ask her not to be rude to Savras – she seemed to take the accusation with pride however. He came further in and stood in front of his girlfriend, sheepish in his attitude. “Are you really sure you don’t want me to come along with you?”

“I was specifically instructed to go alone. To bring Qanaak is already pushing it,” she looked over at Nysar, “I wouldn’t call it being reckless however, it’s more akin to... acknowledging that I’m alive, and taking risks to experience great things and maybe even to make a difference, somewhere, somehow. If I die, it’ll be my own fault, I won’t have any blame to pass around, for anyone.” Timun hugged her dearly.

“You are  _ forbidden _ to die on this mission. We’ll both survive what we have to go through, and we’ll have a nice wedding,” he held her face to look into those beautiful amber eyes. “Savras… if you don’t take me with you, will you at least take this with you?” he presented her a little rectangular case.

“That is very sweet!” Savras answered even before she’d opened the case, “I should’ve gotten you something,” she reckoned, but then brightened up, “I’ll bring you a little something from my adventures. I bet I’ll scavenge  _ something _ nice,” then she gasped a bit at the contents of the box; inside laid a hairpin of Bajoran making, decorated with two crescent moons, “That’s very lovely, Timun,” she kissed his cheek, “although, you  _ are _ my only moon,” she nuzzled his nose a bit.

A tender “Aww…” escaped Timun and he kissed her. “I thought it would be more practical and more discreet than a necklace,” he admitted. “You’re going to be around my father, and if he’s still alive, the less he knows about what’s between you and I, the better it is for all of us,” he forced a smile.

“If he’s still alive,” Nysar came closer and laid a hand on Savras’s shoulder, “if you get the chance to talk to him… can you tell him he’s still my husband?” She slipped into the woman’s mind however.  _ “I think Qanaak can be helpful for your mission, but if you would rather go alone, if you believe it is better and safer for you, you only need to tell me now.” _

_ “It would be extremely abusive of me to win over him just to dismiss him. He might not act very much like a Klingon, but he still deserves the respect – I’ll make it work, somehow.” _ She hugged both Timun and his mother. “If we find Jaden, I’ll tell him that. And I’ll make sure to let him know everyone misses him, too,” she smiled and moved back a little, “and if  _ you _ meet Jederza on the transport, will you be as kind as to remind him that last month’s paycheck is still legally mine, but that I’d like for that money to be transferred to my daughter’s savings account rather than receive it in my own, which will surely be revoked soon anyway?”

“Have you already transferred your funds to another account?” Nysar worried instantly. “If you give me legal procuration, I can arrange it for you,” she offered at once. “And have you told your ex-wife and your daughter about what’s going on? Not everything of course, but…”

“I am pretty sure officials told them, but no, I didn’t transfer anything yet. I could give you my...” she rummaged in a pocket and withdrew a small notepad, and wrote down what was necessary for the arrangement, along with her thumbscan, “Here. I trust you’ll know what to do with it – but please, don’t send any word to them. I don’t want it to seem like they had anything to do with it; they didn’t.” 

“Understood,” Nysar took the PADD. “And don’t worry, I will take good care of everything.”

“So… this is goodbye then?” Timun tried not to let emotion get the best of him as he squeezed Savras a little more and nuzzled her hair, smelling its perfume as to fill himself with it as long as he still could. “I love you. I really love you,” he kissed the spots on her neck. “I’ll take care of Melekor and myself. Take care of yourself and don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

“I’ll do everything in my power to protect her, Timun,” Qanaak raised his voice. “You’re like a brother to me. I promise I’ll bring her back to you.” Savras embraced Timun in a deep, warm kiss, and breathed the heat of him for just a moment.

“And I promise to bring your friend back to you, too,” she winked, “I love you, Timun Lykes, I wouldn’t ever dream of abandoning you. Please, promise me you’ll go  _ home _ again, if you find that Cardassia is too much for you to handle. Okay?”

“I won’t risk my life over it, I promise,” he kissed her. “I have so much to come back to,” he smiled, eyes getting wet from emotion. “I can do it. I mean, if I’ve managed to get in and out of detention on this station four – five times? – without any charges pressed against me, I can probably go to Cardassia and come back in one piece. I’ll make sure not to get in any trouble with justice however. I  _ promise _ . I’ll be very tame, and I’ll come back. For you, for Dzi, for mom, for Jabin, for everybody… We have a bright future ahead of us, I know it. Everything will be fine in the end.” Nysar refrained from sighing at those childish words. Maybe it was what they needed to convince themselves they weren’t making a deadly error, both of them.

“If I find out that you didn’t keep your promise, there are punishments to be had,” Savras threatened darkly, pinching Timun’s left buttcheek for emphasis, then she let him go, “Oh and... if you happen to run into any hot, willing Cardassians, by all means, treat yourself,” she grinned and shook her head at the shamelessness of it, “Gives me something to fantasize about,” she looked around to make sure Dzi was more amazed by Qanaak’s secret doings than she was of anything else. Timun chuckled.

“You do the same, just mind who you sleep with, uhm?” – Nysar shook her head and laughed.

“Alright, let’s go then. Farewell, both of you, and be careful. I’ll be looking forward the end of this entire story.” 

Timun went to give his Klingon friend a big hug, “You take care. You’ve done great for all those years, you’ll keep on doing great.”

“I will,” Qanaak grinned. “Now, out, all of you! This is my ship and I intend to depart soon! Captain Wayan,” he turned to her, “prepare to set the course.” Timun looked at her with pride, waltzing to hold her hands.

“Captain Wayan,” he repeated with excitation, “with such a title, I can only have absolute faith that you’ll guide this ship onward success. Farewell, captain,” he kissed her one last time. “See you soon.”

“And to you too, Doctor Lykes,” she blew a kiss after him, and a graceful nod after Nysar – and stole a hug from Dzi before she could leave, too.

“Tell dad he was pretty sparkles if you find him, and the others,  _ give them hell! _ ” she whispered to the the woman’s ear before retreating into her mother’s arms. At last the family left and Qanaak turned to Savras.

“The transporter is ready to dematerialize the cloak engine at your command, captain. I am ready to take the helm and proceed to depart,” he walked to his seat. “Shall I open a channel to OP’s?”

“Please, go ahead,” Savras answered as she made her way to the captain’s seat, where she placed herself, one leg crossed over the other, “once we depart, I would like us to go through the wormhole. Just in case Melekor is looking to see us go – he’s too observant for his own good, sometimes.”

“Your orders, captain,” Qanaak agreed and contacted OP’s to request departure. No questions were asked, the shuttlebay opened, and the ship was brought up towards freedom. “Engaging thrusters,” Qanaak signaled as he maneuvered to move away from the landing pad. “Setting course to the wormhole.” Stars turned into strokes of white for a moment, time to approach the passage. The Klingon reduced the speed, ready to react at any sign of danger – what he hated about this blasted thing was the impossibility to know if another ship wasn’t just about to come out.

The fabric of the universe tore itself off in a giant cloud of blue and purple energies and the ship dived through the anomaly.

On DS9, Timun, Nysar and Dziana were watching. “Make a wish!” the little girl yapped.

“ _ Give me another chance to make peace with Melekor so I can survive Cardassia and be reunited with Savras, _ ” Timun thought. He needed not to pray for Captain Wayan. He had faith in her already. However, he wasn’t forgetting Ywanna’s advice and had to excuse himself and leave his mother and Dziana for a moment.


	35. Day 28 - III

Glain had instructed the kids to take care of themselves for a moment so he could visit Lykes quickly, for a small errand of his own. He opened the door to leave their quarters, only to jump back in surprise, wide-eyed and flailing his entire body, at the unexpected sight of the Vulcan-Trill standing there in the corridor. On the other side, Timun was just as surprised by the reaction and backed off a bit too, which caused the door to close. He took a breath and composed himself before reaching for the chime again. On the other side, Glain seemed to have regained composure as well and opened the door more cooly.

“Lykes,” he greeted him sourly. “Come in then.” The half-Vulcan obeyed, nervously clinging to the medibag his mother had thoughtfully brought him.

“I’m sorry to intrude, and sorry if I scared y-”

“I wanted to see you, actually,” Glain cut off.

“You did? And… what can I do for you?”

“Are you capable to remove scars? Old scars,” he asked.

“For Terek?” Timun assumed.

“Yes, but for me too, actually. I want you to remove some scars I have, and I want no record of this of course,” he required.

“I see…” the Vulcan-Trill didn’t entirely appreciate how he was being used, but figured it was just foretaste of what Cardassia would have him take in and swallow. After all, he’d come on Ywanna’s advice to apologize to Melekor. “Alright, at least I so happen to have the tools I need,” he patted his bag.

“Good, then let’s go to my room.”

Timun licked his lips, “I need to see the scars first, to know what I’m dealing with, and if I’ll need regenerative gel.” Glain sighed and pulled his sleeve to show the scars on his forearm, then lifted the bottom of his shirt to reveal those on his belly. The doctor observed and nodded before heading to the replicator. He fished the rod containing his medical clearance code and asked the computer to open a channel to the infirmary, so he could signal the order he was about to pass. When asked for the patient’s name, he gave Terek’s.

“That should do it,” he finally took the bottle and the gloves that had materialized, before following Glain to his room. “Does Melekor know about what we’re about to do?”

“Yes, but I’d rather you finish before he comes back. It’s better for him if he doesn’t have to see you.”

“I know,” Timun said. “I’m going to have to see him however. To apologize.”

“It won’t make any difference to him,” Glain locked the door and took off his shirt before sitting on the bed, letting the other take off his coat and prepare everything he needed.

“I know, and I’m not asking for forgiveness. It would be insulting. Still, I need him to know that I am sorry, and no matter what, I’ll always be on his side.” He took the sanitizer and set to clean his and the other’s arms. The Cardassian looked him do, silent for a while.

“Getting his best friend killed isn’t exactly being on his side, is it?”

“Appearances are deceiving. Maybe someday he’ll look at it again and maybe he’ll see I was on his side all along…” Timun cooled down as he locked his emotions. “Do you want me to detail the procedure, or do you trust me to just get the job done?” he asked while scanning the scar.

“Get it over with, that’s all I want.” The Vulcan nodded and set to work, applying gel on the skin. He started working on the belly too, sounding the internal organs to check their condition as well.

“You’ve been patched up in a hurry, haven’t you? Do you get cramps around here sometimes?” he asked – Glain nodded. “And there too?” he pressed another area and got a positive reaction as well. “That’s not all too surprising considering the way you’ve been healed. There are some scar tissues you could certainly do without, and I’d advise you to get this checked by a Cardassian doctor soon. You’re young and resistant now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up with some problems later on.”

“Why do you care?” the youth asked.

“I’m a doctor, it’s my job to care for the health of my patients.”

“I’m not your patient. I only asked you to get rid of those scars! Don’t you take this opportunity to spy on my insides!”

“I’m sorry,” Timun apologized quickly. “I won’t do this again.” He silenced and started to work with the dermal regenerator on the arms. Halfway through the right arm, he raised his voice again. “Thank you for putting me back in place, Mister Rokat… I’ll make sure to remember not to do this ever again when we reach Cardassia.”

“You do that, yes,” the Cardassian frowned.

“May I ask you if you would happen to have any idea of whether or not I might be subject to torture upon arrival?” he asked submissively.

“Hm, I wouldn’t know, but if I get the chance, I’ll try to pass a word in your favor,” Glain said and stretched his lips into a smirk. “In favor of you being tortured, of course.” He felt quite pleased when Timun didn’t answer. “And so, are you eager to get there?” he teased further.

“I need to be there in case there is a medical emergency during the trip.”

“You don’t  _ need _ to, but I suppose we can use you being there. It’ll be the last time Elem will have to be around you ever again, and then, who cares what happens to you.”

“Savras cares. Dziana, my brother Jabin, my mother,” Timun smiled. The two first names had Glain cool down a little. Savras was Elem’s friend, Dziana was Terek’s friend and quite sweet…

“You don’t deserve to have a happy family,” he finally opted to say with a venomous tongue. “You are an awful person, Timun Lykes, and everybody would be better off without you.” The half-Vulcan’s smile didn’t subside.

“I’m done with the arm. How does it feel, without the scar?” he asked. Glain blinked a bit and compared the reality to the memory of how things used to be. 

“Strange,” he answered. I’ve had it for so long… It feels like ...so much more is gone…” he murmured.

“Do you feel lighter?”

“Somehow, yes.”

“Shall I proceed with the belly?”

“Yes. Take them all off, I no longer want those scars. Get it over with.”

##  * * *

Meanwhile, Melekor too had watched Savras’ ship head through the wormhole, pretty certain he’d never see her again, no matter she survived or not. His new life on Cardassia,  _ Elem’s _ life, wasn’t going to be inclusive of anyone he’d known up until this point. He didn’t want to call himself unfeeling, as he was fairly certain that even though he didn’t really feel anything now, it didn’t mean those emotions wouldn’t surface at a later point. Nevertheless, she was gone and the wormhole, too, was gone, replaced by the blackness of space. The point of no return had since long been crossed; all he could do was to take a deep breath, tighten his grip on his traveler’s bag, and carry himself with confidence.

It was a silent Melekor who entered Garak’s Clothier, because he wasn’t sure where to begin. It would’ve been endlessly easier to send Glain, but he hadn’t really considered it: he owed Garak answers to questions already, and couldn’t afford to seem like he would go back on his promise. Patiently, he waited for the tailor to approach  _ him _ , allowing him to finish up whatever seam or order he was working on. Truly, Garak’s hands were full, but he’d made sure not to hurry too much over his work lately, afraid as he was to run out of anything to do, anything to occupy his mind and his fertile imagination.

“Approach, my dear,” he still welcomed the other, and bit off the last piece of thread from the seam he’d finished. He could have used scissors, but he felt that those small touches of him made his works more authentic and unique. “Come,” he set the cloth on the worktable and came closer to lead the way to the back of the shop, “Let’s have a little talk,” he hummed as he wrapped his arm around Melekor’s shoulders. Once there, the young man opened his bag and took out his shirt, which he laid on the table without a word – the garment, the gun holes by which Melekor’s fingers lingered a moment longer, spoke for itself. Then he looked at Garak, a lingering sadness in his eyes.

“I had the best of intentions,” he tried to explain, but felt like his jaw was getting stuck with each word pushed forth, “I only wished him well.”

“I know you did,” Garak gently held his face, tracing the ridges that led to the ears. “You’re not the first one to have held such intentions. I wish I could have told you sooner not to let your emotions get in your way,” he sighed. It was a new situation for him too, somehow. Others had come to him with this dismay and sadness dulling their otherwise quick eyes, and all Elim could do was to punish them for their mistakes and lack of insight or farsight. This time however, he was no agent of the Obsidian Order, only a plain, simple tailor facing a sad friend who had tried his best where he shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry, my dear… I am afraid there are no words I could say that would make you feel better right now. While I do not wish for you to have to get used to this pain, I must warn you however that it may happen again… It is a harsh world you are headed to…”

“I hardly even got to talk to him –  _ someone _ had to tell him that his identity had been revealed. I wanted to  _ prevent _ his death,” Melekor looked at Garak with a more urgent dismay, “He was my best friend, and he… he loved me,” he confessed in Maniel’s stead. “I never realized. Up until the point he told me, I had never considered it.” Garak turned to the cloth instead, passing his hand over the holes but not touching the fabric yet.

“He shot you in a most non-lethal way and took his own life instead,” he summed. “He loved you. He knew you were close to the persons he was after, and yet he didn’t opt out of his assignment. He was your best friend… and his death is  _ not _ your fault. Nor your brother’s, nor Wayan’s, nor Lykes’, Doctor Bashir’s or anyone else. I know how it is tempting to throw blames on yourself or others, but it doesn’t get you far. His death was his own doing. Now, I suppose the question is… what do  _ you _ want his story to be?” he turned to Melekor. “You are the one who survived, this means you are the one to write it.” The other shook his head and leaned on the table, looking at the shirt like he was looking at a part of himself.

“He killed me once – last time he was on the station, when subconscious wishes would manifest as something more physical –” Garak tried not to wince at the memory of that day – “He saw me,” Melekor went on, “and then he killed me, and I think he found he couldn’t do it again,” he looked at Garak, “He was just a man doing his duty. No one should have to kill someone  _ twice...  _ bury someone twice.” He looked at the shirt again, “I don’t want there to be a story. There never should have been one in the first place.”

“What do you want to feel? If you’re bringing this shirt to me, I assume it isn’t to apologize as much as to get it mended, which leads me to deduce that you would like for those wounds to heal…?”

“I’d like for you to mend those wounds so that they can’t be seen from the outside, but still carry stitches on the inside, and I want those to be in gold thread, so I can feel them,” Melekor said, and by reflex, he laid his hand against the spot where the bullet had hit him. “I can’t help but to think of all those years we lost to his devotion. He told me he watched over me, all these years... and I should feel grateful. I should feel touched. But I’m angry, Garak,” he swallowed sharply, “I’m so angry at him, and I try to channel that anger at others, to get rid of it, but it keeps growing.”

“And it  _ will  _ keep on growing if you don’t direct it at him. You know he is responsible for his own fate. He should never have accepted an assignment involving to be anywhere near you, he should never have watched over you and kindled his feelings for you through this practice. He should have erased all those memories of you, and in truth… he should have killed you,” he took the cloth a bit briskly. “That’s what agents are expected to do when feelings get in the way of their duty. But I suppose he didn’t have the courage to do any of this, and maybe entertained the delusion that he was capable to go on with this one-sided romance. To keep everything, because he couldn’t make the choice. And I thought the Tal Shiar was sloppy,” he shook his head and looked at Melekor. “Yes. I’m angry too,” he told sternly. Truly, he was angry at himself too. His words bore a level of hypocrisy and arrogance he refused to address, just as much as Melekor refused to direct his anger at Maniel. Did she feel angry too, Palandine, when Elim was exiled?

“We’ve all been violated because of him,” he continued, “He shot you right through the heart and you stand here bleeding in front of me with a wound I cannot heal no matter how much I wish I could,” he lifted a hand to his own chest. “And his colleagues violated the infirmary to get him back, and managed to wipe the files concerning him in such a way that  _ even I _ couldn’t restore them.” He paused, steeling himself some and gathering his composure. “Please, Elem,” he told with a much softer voice, “do not let his love for you destroy you and everything around you. He cannot just re-appear from nowhere, dump those feelings on you and die just like that… You don’t have to accept those feelings, at least not  _ now _ .”

“But what if I want to forgive him?” he asked after a while of thinking, “You see... all I ever wanted was a sign, to know he was alive. Just something small, every now and then – if he’d just given me that, I wouldn’t have pursued this. I wouldn’t have helped Timun figure out who he was, Glain would never have told Timun Maniel’s name, and I wouldn’t have trapped him in my quarters and confronted him. He would have lived… if he’d just trusted me,” he crossed his arms over his chest. “I miss him.” His nose itched a little, so he lifted his left arm to rub it over his face, “I  _ always _ missed him. And now it’s- it’s my own fault that I miss him. He’s  _ never _ coming back, I’m never going to talk to him again, never going to hold him, never going to see him, not even his dead body – and there won’t be a grave. He’ll never have a grave. It’s  _ just  _ like before.”

“It’s not,” Garak came closer and dragged him to sit on the table with him. Side by side, a hand on his lap, the shirt discarded to his other side. “Now, you know that he’s dead, and someday, you’ll be able to let him rest in peace. But that’s not for now, or anytime soon. Now is the time to be angry at him. For not making a choice between you and his duty, for not trusting you or his faction, for trying to be smarter than everybody…” Garak smiled a little. “Are you  _ certain _ you want me to embroider the inside of your shirt with gold thread however? Glain already has some scars… I hoped you wouldn’t want to follow the same road,” he admitted, maybe because the similarity between his and Maniel’s failure felt like such an embroidery might be an ode to his own downfall. “I usually don’t hold this kind of reserve about my clients’ wishes, but you’re not just a customer, Elem. You’re a friend,” he held the young man’s hand to his heart. “I ...value you.” There was a moment of silence as the engineer contemplated the tailor’s words.

“I’m not sure,” he answered finally, looking at their hands on Garak’s chest, “But it’s not the same as for Glain. I wouldn’t be keeping them as scars, not as a picture of injury, but as a celebration of life. To remind myself that at that moment, when I was shot, my life was given to me, by him. And while I suffer now, and a part of me would rather he’d actually killed me, so I wouldn’t have had to sit by him while he died, I... think I will feel different in the future.”

“I hope so,” Garak took a breath and closed his eyes a moment, still holding the other’s hand. “I guess I have some more work to do, orders to prioritize if you’re leaving soon…” he looked at him. “Still… do you think you would care to pass by my quarters tonight, for dinner? Or, if not tonight… at least make sure you honor me with your presence one last time before you depart…” Melekor blushed a little and couldn’t help but to smile – it was a small but genuine smile.

“I think I’ll need to go to bed early tonight; I’m exhausted,” the engineer admitted. “But dinner at your quarters sounds great, tomorrow night if you’re alright with that? Glain keeps nagging me that a change of scenery might be what I need, anyway.” Then he lowered his voice a bit, “Not that I think he’d approve, but he doesn’t need to know. For all he knows I’ll be with my mother.”

“I hope you didn’t pick that lying habit off of me,” Garak grinned and looked at their hands, shyly giving Melekor his back. “I’ll do my best to entertain you,” he promised. “Go now, my dear. Your fiancé awaits for you longingly, I can feel it in my matchmaker’s heart,” he added with a pinch of drama. Melekor found that he could afford a small laughter, then shook his head and waved a little at Garak before he left the shop, still chuckling to himself. Once he was in the turbolift to the quarters though, the sorrow washed over him again, and he felt all other emotions fade to the background.

##  * * *

Do you feel any itch or strange sensation in the skin?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Glain touched his forearms and his belly. “Should I?”

“No, of course not!” Timun laughed. “But I’ve never used this gel on a Cardassian before. It shouldn’t have any secondary effect, but we never know. How do you feel? Are you satisfied with the result?” The archivist kept on looking at himself in the mirror for a while.

“I thought I’d feel like something is missing, but somehow ...I don’t. It’s almost disappointing, but ...welcome, I suppose.”

“I think you look a lot more like your own person now, but that’s a very personal opinion. I have no doubt that your future wife will appreciate you more like this.”

“Did you have to mention that?” Glain glared at him, then softened. “Thank you. You did a perfect job. I wasn’t expecting such a good result if I should be honest.”

“That makes two of us then!” the doctor joked. “Now, maybe you should see if your brother is back… I thought I heard a door chime and I wouldn’t want to catch him by surprise. I doubt he’d appreciate.”

“He would  _ kill _ you, and he would be right to do so,” Glain approved. Timun smiled with only little amusement.

“Do you hate me?” he asked as the other went toward the door while putting his shirt back on.

“With all my heart,” the Cardassian stopped to answer.

“It’s a cute little heart then.”

“You shut up, and you stay here, Timun Lykes,” Glain hissed at him and went out. Instead of Melekor, he found that Terek had decided to open the door and got assaulted by Dziana Lykes, arms wrapped around her in a tight hug.

“I can’t breathe!” the Cardassian child choked a bit, amused still.

“I’m leaving in a few hours,” the Vulcan told.

“Is this your mother?” Terek asked at the sight of Nysar who approached the threshold but didn’t enter yet.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Dziana grinned with pride. “She’s also very strong and very intelligent. I’ll grow up to be like her and Savras, and I will be very fierce. But I have to tell you something important!” she dragged her friend a bit further in to tell about Ywanna’s recommendations in writing – Nysar sighed, giving the adult Cardassian an apologetic look, as to excuse the manners of her daughter.

“Would my son happen to be in here somewhere?” she asked from where she stood.

“He is,” Glain answered. “Can you take him with you back to… wherever you’re leaving to?”

“I  _ wish _ ,” Nysar glanced away and quickly focused on Dziana. “Now we’re going, Dzi. I’d rather eat something before departure.”

“Can Terek come eat with us?” Dziana asked. Her friend looked at Nysar, not daring to hope for a positive answer, but wishing to. The mother looked at Glain.

“Do you entrust me with her for dinner, so the two of them can say goodbye? I do not intend on stealing her; I have enough children as it is,” she smiled.

“As long as Timun isn’t there,” he answered a bit stiffly, “he’s a bad influence,” he clarified, to be rude. Kilem, who had be spying from the couch, got up and went to stand next to Terek at once, as to suggest he would come along to protect her – Glain sighed but ended up allowing it. He let them leave and went back to his room, where he found Timun seated on a chair, waiting in silence, with his bag in front of him. The Vulcan-Trill looked at him a little anxiously and Glain kindly informed him of what just happened.

“I’m not sorry to put you in the condition of not being able to be with your family so much before they leave, because you don’t deserve them, and they would be better off without you. Now, take your things and get out of here,” he ordered. “You’re disgusting. And don’t come back lurking around our quarters. You’re an offense to us.”

“I see… Thank you for them, I guess then,” Timun swallowed and Glain made sure not to show any emotion in case he  _ might _ be feeling a bit bad about it all. The Cardassian just informed the doctor he’d still come to see him with Terek on the morrow and kicked him out the door. Out there, Timun took a moment to let the feelings sink. Apologizing to Melekor was going to be a lot more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. At loss for good ideas of how to do that, he decided to head to the only person who might give him advice.

##  * * *

“Mister Lykes…” Garak welcomed him formally, not getting his eyes off the clothes he was working on. “How are you faring amidst all those intrigues?”

“Better than Melekor, but I don’t know for how long,” the doctor admitted and explained his predicament. “His mother suggested I make sure to make amends and make up with him as a friend before he becomes a Cardassian citizen, least I’ll likely end up in a trial if he only feels like pinning anything on me for whichever reason… And he has  _ many _ reasons to do such a thing.”

“She’s not exactly wrong about this,” the tailor reckoned. “In fact, she is quite right. Your Federation citizenship won’t be of any help to you on Cardassia. But I suppose Mister Kel isn’t too encline to even see you…”

“Indeed, and I just don’t know what to do. Even if I were to write a letter, send him a gift or anything else… He’ll be offended, annoyed and only more upset with me even than before. I feel that, if I remind myself to him too much, he’ll really want me dead so I no longer have any chance to resurface.”

“Maybe you should consider a safer course of event then, and either delay or cancel your travel?” Garak had to suggest.

“I could cancel it, but if anything were to happen before they’ve reached destination… and with Melekor,  _ anything  _ could happen. I’ve saved his life twice already, and I’m not even counting the less life-threatening situations we’ve been in.”

“True, he has a talent for this,” the tailor put down his tool and looked at the other. “If I should be honest, I’d rather things were going better between the both of you, in your common interest… So far, I still count as a friend of Mister Kel, and someone he listens to – which is why you came to see me, right? – and I suppose I would be willing to take the risk to slip a word in your favor. However, maybe there is something you could do for me in return.”

“And what would it be?” Timun asked cautiously.

“I believe you are in a close relationship with Savras Wayan… By any chance, would you know if she had personal quarters aboard the Levossa?” Garak looked at him attentively.

“As a matter of fact, she used to, yes. Not very cozy, but suitable enough for the job,” the Vulcan answered. “I’ve been there with her,” he added.

“Oh, that’s most fascinating. And when was that?”

“When I departed to Trill, why?”

“Living on this space station has grown in me a fascination for ships, and I suppose I’ve always wanted to visit one. Somehow I have an inkling that Miss Wayan’s quarters might be absolutely interesting, in matter of technology, maybe. If you could help me get there…”

“I see… Well, if you so happen to have a pair of pants for her that she hasn’t picked yet, I suppose we have no choice but to inquire of her whereabouts when the Levossa comes to dock,” Timun agreed, getting a large smile from the tailor. “But Mister Garak, are you certain those technological interests of yours are suitable and safe for a tailor?”

“Oh, Mister Lykes, if I truly wanted safety, I wouldn’t be on a space station full of people who hate my kind. And besides, everybody needs a hobby.”

 

The two of them came in the ship almost casually as some of the stewarts seemingly got mistaken on Garak’s identity (“Melekor’s coming back to cry for his job” one whispered in his back). That they wouldn’t care to tell two Cardassians apart like this was baffling, but then again, didn’t Trills all look the same as well? When asked what they were doing there, Timun simply told that he’d been mandated by Savras to gather some of her personal belongings. “And I was going to deliver a pair of pants,” Garak added, patting the bag he was holding, “but I suppose I’ll only be helping the doctor this time. And no, I’m not Melekor, I’m afraid, and he’s not coming back to retrieve his position.”

“Now that’s really desolating,” the woman sighed.

The men nodded and quickly made their way to the quarters. Garak drew some instruments from his bag and started to sound the walls and panels.

“What are we looking for?” Timun asked while searching under the mattress and inside the cupboards.

“Anything. It could be extremely small if it’s still there. If not, we’ll have to look for a sign that it  _ used _ to be there. A defect, a stain, a radiation, a higher density of particles in some spot…”

“That’s like trying to find a tribble in the Klingon Empire!” Timun was a bit dismayed but took his medical magnifier to better observe the places he thought would be good spots for hiding a monitoring device. Garak paused a second and just went for the console and removed the panel to investigate the calls history, seek for any alteration to the programs, any sign that somehow, calls were made, activated by remote control. The Vulcan quickly could see the logic in this. “Why bring in hardware when there’s already something existing,” he noted.

“Oh, I believe they  _ did _ bring hardware in there, but they took it back. It’s a simple and efficient way to bypass most securities without leaving traces. In our mutual engineering friend’s own words, a  _ deceitful little bitch _ ,” he furthered his examination. “Now, this nasty little thing must have leached on some energy, here… and hopefully I can find a proof of this,” he silenced for a while.

“Hm…” was the disgruntled sound that left him afterwards. “I can say when it was present, but that’s the extent of it. It must have been designed to work completely alongside the programs without any direct alteration, and if it sent signals to activate functions, it also erased those orders from the history to leave no trace.”

“Maybe there’s DNA to be found? Or fingerprints?” Timun approached with his medical tricorder, which he’d just calibrated to detect organic material.

“I believe you’ll find a lot of DNA in this room, Mister Lykes but I wouldn’t count on fingerprints…” Garak grit his teeth and got up. “If Melekor was shot by a ballistic weapon, the persons who put and removed this monitoring device might even have been wearing  _ gloves _ .” 

“Well, I’ll make sure to beware of any Trill I see wearing gloves then,” Timun sighed and tried to put the panel back in place – “Is that how it was?” he cared to ask, to which Garak answered nothing and just put it back more correctly. The Vulcan-Trill cleared his throat, “And so, when was the device removed?”

“ _ Five hours ago _ ,” Garak was positively fuming, drawing a PADD out of his bag and reviewing some tabs quickly.

“Are these people passengers you suspect?” Timun loomed over his shoulder to look at the personal files he had opened.

“Is it something all Federation doctors do, snooping around like this?” Garak moved away.

“I suppose we’re only curious.”

“Well, curiosity kills cats, Mister Lykes, but I’d rather not have this conversation again. Now if you would like to make yourself useful, maybe I’ll appreciate you running a thorough DNA scan of this room after all –” Timun looked at him with a gaping mouth, “I assure you, if you  _ find _ the shadow we’re chasing, I’ll do all I can to ensure that you aren’t tortured on Cardassia.”

“Put so eloquently, how can I refuse?” Timun grunted but set to work. The tailor smiled and left to hopefully ask a few more questions to the crew. After all, he had another pair of pants for a mysterious Trill client he’d like to find.


	36. Day 29 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last day on DS9 – a tiny short chapter before a longer one.

##  Day 29

 

It was the next day morning and Glain stood in the shower, enjoying the feeling of sonic vibrations as he ran his fingers through his hair. It sent little electric currents all through his scalp, and it was  _ extremely _ relaxing and pleasant. And the Order knew Glain needed to relax… He felt almost high on the feeling and didn’t hear the door opening and closing. Still, the slight gush of air caught his attention enough to make him react and open his eyes. He saw nothing unusual at first, then looked down and saw Kilem. The sudden presence startled him and prompted a reflex to cover his belly with his forearms until he realized there were no scars left to try and hide. His genitals however, he didn’t care to hide, because there wasn’t anything special about them and Kilem was Cardassian.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, a little offended still. “I haven’t been in here for so long ...have I?” Kilem shrugged and got out of his clothes, discarding them on the floor and leaning against the wall next to Glain, looking him over.

“You’re vain like a girl, taking such a long-lasting shower,” he said in what was simple honesty, “it’s very important for girls to be representative, isn’t it? To take advantage of the weak whims of males – are you trying to charm males, too?” he asked, as if that was a very normal conclusion to make.

“Alright,” Glain held him by the shoulders and guided him back to his clothes. “ _ First _ you’re going to fold those clothes correctly and put them  here on the bench,” he showed the spot next to his own clothes, which were very neatly folded. “ _ Order _ is very important. And I’m not vain, I’m  _ smart _ . By caring for myself as well as a female would, I make myself more relatable to them, and pleasant to the eye, which greatly increases my chances of befriending them and benefiting from their intelligence, because  _ they _ are smarter than men. Controlled androgyny is a great advantage in society,” he showed the kid how to fold his clothes correctly but let him do it himself so he would learn. “Now if males find me charming and to their taste, that is  _ their _ prerogative.”

“Why does it have to be a problem?” Kilem asked as he half-assedly folded his clothes, “Just because you  _ think _ males are not  _ as smart _ as women, doesn’t mean you can’t benefit from men as well. And if you hadn’t noticed, most inhabitants of these quarters are male – even the only other Cardassian on the station is male,” he beamed a little, “unless he’s like Terek. Looks like a male, but is in fact not quite one,” he pursed his lips, “are you trying to charm him?”

“Ew, no!” Glain made a face at the whole idea of Garak. He took the both of them back in the shower and put a knee down to be more at Kilem’s height and take a closer look at the scales of his face, especially inspecting the ears. “As for yourself you need to stop focusing like that on who is male, female or in-between and what that might say of them. Just because roles are expected of us doesn’t mean that’s the only valid perspective to view people through. To survive on Cardassia, you must know all the rules, but mostly all the unwritten rules in between the lines,” he let go off the kid’s head to inspect his neck instead. “You like Terek, don’t you? You’d like to be more than a friend to him,” he suggested while feeling the scales – “How does that feel?” he sniped the question on a second layer of conversation.

“It tickles, of course,” the child snorted at the idiotic question and rubbed himself where he’d been touched, then continued; “I already  _ am _ more than his friend,” he stated in a factual way, “I’ve had it all planned out since the start – I would never accept being parted from Terek, and if I  _ were _ , I’d find him once I’d be old enough to do so. Then, we would marry, and I’d protect him, like any good male should. Terek is my purpose,” he said with a serious expression, “That he is turning into a girl isn’t all bad; it means I will continue to be important to him, as he will be weaker than me once we are both adult.” Glain soon left the neck alone to observe how the scales were starting to develop on other areas of the body and get a better idea of the advancement of puberty in Kilem.

“Looks like you’re reaching that age when boys are getting higher testosterone levels and become stupid,” he commented just as factually. “If you think that being stronger than Terek is a good reason why you’d stay important to her, you’re incredibly wrong. Terek might be  _ your _ purpose, but are you hers?” he looked up at the dark eyes. “I would like you to stop teasing her about her gender and the way her body is changing, and  _ stop _ nagging her about you turning into a male. You’re not helping with that behavior. Even if the facts are correct, Terek isn’t fine with them. She’s lost, confused and betrayed by the way her own body is transforming in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Each time you brag about being male, you remind her of everything he may no longer have in the future. Each time you tell her he’s going to be a woman, you remind him you’re no longer equals. It’s easy to tell there is a connection between you two, but if you’re not more careful… you’re going to break it, Kilem,” he said with concern. “You’re not protecting your friend right now. You’re hurting him and making it harder for her to figure out what he ...or she is. If you keep on like this, you might lose him and it’ll be your fault,” he warned.

“But if I don’t, he’ll forget that I’m important,” Kilem contradicted his elder, “I have to remind him, or else he’ll find someone older, stronger and more competent than me. Especially since we’re going to Cardassia – Terek is perfect, and I am not the only one who will notice that. Others will, and then I will  _ have _ to have him in a firm grasp, or he’ll run away.” Glain wasn’t so pleased with what he heard, but he kept in mind that Kilem was only a child, and not at the best age.

“Kilem,” he set both hands on his shoulders, “ _ I _ am your elder, I am twice your age, and I am a lot more experienced in those things than you are, so listen to me. Keeping a firm grasp over your lover does in no way ensure success. The truth is that males are meant to be  _ dominated _ , so Terek should be the one in control, and I think she’s feeling it already, and that’s why she keeps on trying to put you back to your place. Do you really think our military society would be anything efficient if males weren’t submissive? We have to be obedient in way to be good soldiers, otherwise it would be chaos. And when it comes to love relationships, you have to be  _ strategic _ . Observe your target, analyze what he wants, and try to provide it. If he wants to be kept in control, tighten your grip. If she wants more freedom,  _ loosen _ it. And sometimes, it’s good to let it go completely,” he smirked, “...to see them crawling back at you,” his eyes gleamed with a somewhat deviant malice. “I  _ think _ you’d enjoy that.” Kilem wasn’t convinced.

“If I do nothing, Terek will find me uninteresting and get someone else to entertain... them,” he decided on the gender neutral for children, “I  _ like _ seeing his reactions, the flare of emotions. His anger means that he cares, and as long as he cares, I’m in control. I  _ need _ for things to work out exactly as I have planned. Otherwise I will be as lost as Terek is, and that would help neither of us.  _ I _ am in charge.”

“If you really want to do something, try to be helpful and intelligent. Believe me, few things are as attractive to a Cardassian woman as intelligence. It’s in our genes. You’re still a child of course, but hopefully you’ll catch up with Terek in time to start seeing a bit more what he’s starting to see. You think his anger is caring, and for now, you’re right. But you must change your approach or he’ll soon be fed up with your bluntness. You’re cute as a kid can be, but you’re not charming as a  _ man _ can be,” Glain pointed. “Don’t be surprised if acting like a brat only ends up pushing him towards real men who can sustain an argument with passionate  _ eloquence _ .”

“I’ll never catch up,” Kilem bit back with pessimism, “Terek will always be ahead of me. The only way I could keep him is to make him believe there’s no better option. And I  _ am _ a real man,” he added surly, “just because I don’t have a penis, doesn’t mean I’m not what I am. I have  _ all that matters _ in regards to being a man. Except maybe that I’m not very tall. Yet.”

“It’s not height you’re lacking, nor a penis,” Glain snickered. “It’s the adult sort of love attraction, which isn’t like the one children feel. And lust,” he poked the boy’s pubis. It felt a bit strange and Glain realized it was actually the first time his hands had been so close from someone’s feminine parts. He froze a bit as he stared at his fingertip pressed against the soft spot. “Do you feel something sometimes around… somewhere there, below?” he asked, breaking the contact to gesture at the area. Kilem blushed a deep darkness and glared at Glain, then rubbed at the touched skin to make the sensation go away.

“That is a  _ very _ personal question,” he pouted a bit and crossed his arms, “Do  _ you _ ? When you look at  _ males _ ?” he grinned, “When you go to that tailor, maybe you feel something there. You’ve got an  _ adult love attraction _ to him, don’t you? How quaint!”

“Ew, what an idea really!” Glain winced again. “And what  _ I _ feel or not has nothing to do with  _ your _ puberty. It’s quite normal to start getting sensations there and touch yourself. It may start at a younger age even, but it becomes very different when you start developing lust. It feels quite nice,” he specified with an amused grin. “But take your time,” he got up and left the shower to spread some moisturizing lotion on his clean hide, “there’s no need to rush for those things, they’ll come to you on their own.”

Kilem was rather embarrassed at the entire conversation; it reminded him of that one time the previous year, when Prylar Anik visited to speak about reproduction, consent and the importance of love as part of the act – he’d been so ashamed of everything he had to say to the Cardassian orphans that he’d stuttered through the entirety of it. At the end, it wasn’t even a lot that had come of it: only something about how the Prophets urged you to act upon these ‘desires’ with kindness and respect, and that the opposite of these two was rape, and to perform rape was to go against the Will of the Prophets. Truly, the entire conversation had been more about rape, biology and the Prophets than actual sexuality.

That aside, Kilem was familiar with the act of touching one’s self – he  _ had _ been grouped up with the males; slept in their dormitory back when there were enough of them to justify the segregation, and he’d shared showers with them. Torik in particular had indulged in this kind of thing, especially when it was just the two of them in the showers. It had been  _ quite _ disgusting how he’d liked to display himself like that, especially since, at least four times, the disgusting mess that came out of his penis ended up all over Kilem, which meant he had to stay in the shower even longer. He had been thoroughly relieved once Torik got ‘adopted’ (but since he was fourteen, it was more likely that he was just going to be ‘free labour force’; Kilem didn’t really care, either way). Still, he found it a bit disturbing that Glain was suggesting him to do such things to himself, seeing as firstly, he didn’t have a penis, and secondly, it looked gross when others did it, so why should he do it too? No. Those things were better off left to their own devices.

Once he felt he was done showering, he slipped back into his clothes and went to the other room. He found that Glain had gone with Terek, probably to see the Vulcan-Trill doctor. Why removing Terek’s scar was so important, Kilem had a hard time to understand. Glain had said it was because everybody was happy and safe in Cardassia, and as such, it would be highly unwelcome to keep a scar for all to see. You could get in trouble for that, especially in higher class areas, such as Paldar, where they would live. “You orphans are already a living stigma of the Occupation, something we all want to forget about, so let’s not make it any more complicated,” the archivist had decided. Hiding the symptoms of a disease would only make it harder to cure it; that was Kilem’s opinion, but nobody seemed to ask for it.

At last, they came back and Glain announced he’d passed by Quark’s to book quick passage for Cardassia. “Our transport will dock in some eighteen hours and depart three hours later. We should be traveling with a full shipment of poorly organized containers of food, spirits, building materials and possibly some undeclared goods,” he announced brightly.

“What kind of undeclared goods?” Elem inquired.

“I don’t know: they’re undeclared,” Glain gave his brother an amused glance. “But Lissepians rarely pass on an opportunity to smuggle all through the demilitarized zone, so I have to suspect there probably are a number of undeclared goods. I know, it’s racist prejudice, but I believe that crystal you needed for your… project,” he favored using the word by caution, “...was shipped on the freighter I came on? And it wasn’t declared.”

No, the most annoying thing supposedly was that Timun too had booked on that transport. Nasty alien. Glain really shouldn’t have allowed him to come along with him to Quark’s, which he had done  _ only _ and  _ solely _ to benefit from his protection around the Promenade. But what was done was done.


	37. Day 29 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A farewell between Elem and Garak.

Afternoon come, Elem went on his way to Garak’s quarters for a last dinner before departure. He still passed by Quark’s to post a belated birthday gift to Ferenginar; it wasn’t much, just a brief letter on his decision to go to Cardassia, along with a fancy bronze-and-silver box that contained some kind of jewel from the Gamma quadrant. He’d bought it in the jewelry shop, and thought it might be a unique enough gift to have a worth other than in latinum – it always  _ were _ difficult to get gifts for Ferengi. He’d gotten a similar box for Garak, though this one contained a geode slightly larger than a closed fist – at first glance, it appeared to be a rather mundane, black rock, but once picked up, it could be parted in two halves, revealing a dark blue-and-purple crystal landscape inside. It was with this box, and rather boldly dressed in the bony white dress, that Elem came to Garak’s quarters and chimed the door. The tailor who opened was a just-as-neatly-dressed-although-slightly-tensed tailor.

“Ah, Elem,” he smiled and gave the way. “It’s good to see you so elegant, my dear,” he passed a hand in his friend’s back to lead them to the couch. If his hand slipped to the small of the back, it was probably maladresse on his behalf. “I thought you might appreciate a short drink before dinner.” He didn’t comment about the setting – a warmer temperature, dimmer lighting, some candles here and there, including on the low table, among small plates of Cardassian appetizers, glasses and a bottle of black Kanar, for a change. Elem had to be quite amazed by the rather romantic setting contrasting with the unequal standing they held in regards to such feelings. He could welcome it nonetheless.

Garak looked at him before allowing them to sit. “Try me if you don’t find a husband,” he flattered Elem, then realized the idiom might sound awkward. “I mean try, as in sue,” he specified. “It  _ does _ sound a lot clearer and unequivocal in Kardasi.” The awkward words just served to set a smile on Elem’s tired lips, and he allowed himself to sit down. Or she. He guessed he’d have to get used to new pronouns – and wished there was a more neutral one, one more in the middle. Neither felt very comfortable.

“I bet it does,” he agreed a bit, still amused at the slip – it was like a comic relief amidst all of the rather dire and shitty shit he found himself in. Now, if only Garak had  _ meant _ it in the other way – but then, that wouldn’t be a proposal Elem would be able to accept, so it would’ve only been even more of a tease. Instead of mentioning anything along those lines, he set the box on the table and shuffled it towards Garak, “In the district of Trill where I grew up, it is customary to bring gifts at these kind of occasions. It’s also customary to make sure the gift is something representative of your host, or yourself, depending on the intention behind your visit. I’ll let you figure out which of us it is, if you can.” He grinned a little; an added challenge without clear answers was  _ always _ a good source for entertainment. In fact, Trills often used this as an excuse to find common ground with new acquaintances – a little sneaky, but in a sweet way. Garak smiled as he accepted the gift and opened the case.

“A rock,” he commented. “A very black rock. Now that’s interesting,” he fished it and let it split, a half resting in each palm. He lost himself in the contemplation of the crystals inside, and the shifting hues of blue and purple. Then he closed the geode. And opened it again. And closed it anew. “It’s going to be a long way before we see each other again, isn’t it? In this stark universe, dark with schemes and plots,” he rubbed the rugous surface of the stone, “the beauty often has to be hidden away from indiscreet eyes. This stone knows a lot about life, doesn’t it?” he joked and opened it again. “One, two…” he counted, “three,” he closed it again. “Is it a trap question in which all the answers are correct, Elem?” he asked.

“You’re too smart for me,” Elem was forced to resign to this, although the dismay was a lie – he had expected nothing less, “Are there similar Cardassian customs I should know of? I have to confess, I’ll miss this particular one once I get there – it’s a very sweet game, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Garak kept on feeling the stone. “And I am glad my guess was right… For a moment I was afraid the message might be different,” he opened the stone again. “It  _ is _ reminiscent of the wormhole, isn’t it?” he had to admit. “Worlds apart… but still together,” he closed the stone. It was the reasoning that set him on the path to guessing right. “At least, if you do enjoy riddles, you should find your pleasure in Cardassia. We love discussion, eloquence and mind games, which includes riddles. Kardasi is a fine language for this,” he put the stone carefully back in the case and set it on the table, leaving it open. And chose to open the stone as well and lay both halves so their inner beauty could be enjoyed – they took life as they reflected the dancing light of the candles.

“As for customs, we have plenty of them. For example, considering the very special circumstances under which you are going to meet your father, there is one old rite I should tell you about. Young people like your brother no longer really care about this tradition, but a man the age of your father will certainly appreciate.” He shuffled himself a little closer and leaned forth to explain with a little more serious and secrecy. “I believe there is a flower shop two streets away from Rokat’s house. You should be able to find sakari buds there; they are small, delicate flowers with petals that keep together into a tight ball. Buy some, and when you  _ enter _ your father’s place,  _ kneel _ in sign of submission. Then put a flower in each of your ear, to signify your devotion to listen to him, and smear the pollen of a third one on your spoon, like this,” he mimicked the application. “Only when he touches your head should you remove the flowers from your ears. And eat them. You should find they’re quite sweet.” At first, Elem was breathless with attention, committing each word to memory – until the story twisted away into something so ridiculous, he could only stare at Garak in disbelief. Then he blinked once, then twice, then had to break eye-contact to cover his mouth with one hand to hide the grin that was forming there.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I got that properly: could you replicate some flowers and show me how it’s done?”

“Oh, we can do this, but as I’m your elder, I guess I have to play the dominating part,” Garak nodded – he wasn’t going to put flowers in his ears. “Otherwise, you would have to eat the flowers from my ears, and that gets a bit too close to the sort of courting rituals that involve ...well, this kind of things.”

“That sounds like a Ferengi courting ritual,” Elem commented, shoulders still moving a bit unsteadily from suppressed laughter, then calmed enough to simply settle into an amused grin, “It  _ would _ help me to know courting rituals, though – so to avoid being oblivious in how I act and ah, how I spot opportunities. So to speak.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Garak looked disappointed. “And yet you expect me to tell you about courting? Quite unfortunately, my dear Elem, if there is a field in which I would be lacking expertise, it would be this one,” he lied, unwilling to delve into such memories. “Though, I suppose I can tell you to keep your mind alert if someone repeatedly engages in arguments with you for the sake of showing their intelligent skills. Especially if you always come to an understanding in the end, if they observe you with great attention,” he stared at him, “and if they wear a low collar that leaves their neck exposed to reveal any sign of arousal of any sort. Intellectual. Sensual. Sexual…” he showed different areas of his own neck. “I believe you possess the instinct to identify those…”

“I have to admit, I never knew there were different kinds of arousal,” Elem admitted, not too concerned that it might become awkward in the present, “maybe they talked about it in sex ed, but that was a class my mother never let me take,” he smiled weakly, “mainly because it wouldn’t have been very relevant to my Cardassian physique, I guess.”

“Ah, yes, probably,” Garak doubted it greatly considering the secret she’d tried to conceal from ‘ _ her son _ ’, “but let’s not talk about your mother tonight, shall we?” he poured Kanar in both glasses. “This, my friend, is black Kanar. It is thicker, and will surround you with a blackness as warm as blood can be, sweet as cream, engulfing, delicately spicy and with just a hint of bitterness if you care to feel it. Some like to mix it with water, iced tea or various milks, but this tender liquor is a treat to first discover dry.” He put the bottle back on the table and gave a glass to the other. “Elem. My dear friend,” he looked at him alike to a snake hypnotizing a prey, “Tonight, let us indulge in kindness,” he raised his free hand as an invitation for Elem to do the same. “Let us be ...improper if we must,” he caressed his wrist, his palm, and overlaid their fingertips in a delicate and sensual touch. “It’ll be a long time before I’ll ever get the chance to share such a contact again, and probably a long time too before you become close enough to a friend to allow for this intimacy…” he purred. Shivers were running down his neck, along the muscles tying the jaw to the collarbones. “Cheers, my dear friend…” he smiled and brought his glass to his lips, letting the black spirit pour down his throat. Elem found the touch of his skin as tickling and hot as the Kanar that swirled over his tongue, though he set the glass back on the table having only taken a small sip from it, and retrieved his hand with a dignified smile. A warm hue tinted his cheeks as he navigated to serve himself from the food on the plates.

“Do you think I ever  _ will _ be able to share  _ that _ kind of intimacy with anyone?” Elem asked in genuine wonder, “I know of your abilities, but they are not very well represented in Cardassians overall, are they?”

“Not very well, no…” he reckoned and took a small skewer of bird meat fried in batter and seeds, “And I suppose this isn’t something we put forward so much, nor seek to develop consciously – _ I _ ignored it might be more than ...skill, I suppose. And in a way, I still don’t feel entirely comfortable with the idea that it would be an ability. It sets me apart some more,” he admitted while observing the blush on Elem’s cheeks with soft blue eyes. He treated himself some meat and continued, “Kilem has what I would call an ability. It is strong enough in him that I could sense it a lot more, and I suppose this is something he’ll need to be careful with around others. Cardassia doesn’t like difference so much,” he smirked. “And yet, you’ll find that difference can also be a source of power, Elem. It’ll be harder for you to get where you want at first, but once you start getting success and approval, you’ll start earning more respect and faster so than others. Past a certain point, the stigma becomes a mark of skill and endurance. If you can get a good position  _ despite _ what sets you apart, then it can be assumed that you are really good.  _ Better _ than others,” he pointed. Elem nodded at the advice, thoughtful as he nibbled on a glazed egg.

“In all honesty, I would prefer discretion – to be bold and in the open, like I’ve tried to be in the past, is such a stressful endeavour. You make yourself a target – and I’ve found that even when you perform with excellence, your course is always set towards discreditation in the end, for people are under the not-entirely-incorrect impression that Federation societies as a whole strive to fill a quota to appear in favour of diversity,” he nodded his head to the side, “And so, because of this, I’m used to being reduced to the scales of my skin, rather than the wits of my mind or the expertise of my hands,” he graciously waved his left fingers in the air to mark his point. “I cannot, of course, know what Cardassia will be in comparison, but I believe that if I reach any amount of success, no matter how miniscule, I’ll have ten more enemies than I have allies. Always,” he put his fingertips on the table, then took the glass of Kanar and lifted it to Garak with a crooked smile, “but I am most privileged to have  _ you _ as a friend – quality wins over quantity,” and drank up to the compliment.

“You flatter me,” Garak returned a similar smile, amused and pleased by the attitude. “And you are right. We often have more enemies than allies,” he admitted. “It’s a militaristic society, and paranoia goes rampant. Trust and betrayal battle on the same grounds, making it hard to ever truly rely on  _ anyone _ ,” he reckoned. “This is why family is so important. It is supposed to be a safe haven in which you can find support from those bound to you by blood,” he discarded his empty skewer in favor of another sip of Kanar, trailing a soft yet penetrating gaze over Elem, faking discretion in a calculating way. “Nevertheless, discord among families seems to have increased more and more all through the Occupation. The Cardassia of today isn’t that of yesterday, and that of tomorrow may be different yet. In which way… we cannot know.” He silenced and froze a moment, eyes unfocusing to lay on a more distant figure. “It’s strange… Love is such a curious thing, and so confusing when it sets on things that aren’t meant to belong in a same frame,” he looked at Elem again. “Sometimes I wonder if it would be simpler and easier if I weren’t so deeply in love with persons, entities, concepts, places… just so I wouldn’t have to disappoint one for the sake of another. But I doubt my choices would be any wiser without emotion to guide me. This is probably what it means to be a Cardassian. It’s a constant torture as we struggle against evolution until our perfection can crush us and finally allow us to hatch anew,” he fisted his free hand and released his fingers like evanescent flames. “We have bred ourselves this way, hard and harsh, but we haven’t bred love out of ourselves. We are passionate people, we love to talk, and so I believe there is hope for us yet,” he softened. “And I’ll allow myself to hope for you too, along with my own selfish desires,” he slowly uncrossed and crossed his legs again, brushing his knee against the other’s by most conscious inadvertence. Elem emptied his glass to those words, a bit intoxicated by the stark darkness of the sentiment. Revolution, that was what Garak implied, civil war. To burn sick forests to kill the disease, and allow for rebirth. He’d seen such fires on Trill; fires of cleansing.

“Hope is passive,” Elem said with distaste for the word choice, “hope is what drives people to the brink of destruction: when Trill joined the Federation, many of the working classes  _ hoped _ it would mean a better, more comfortable future. They  _ hoped _ they would reap the benefits. To be accepted for consideration, all Trills – not only Joined ones – had to be able to participate in politics. The simple man  _ hoped _ this would mean more power for the people, they  _ hoped _ things would become better – for factory workers, for farmers, for medical workers… but the truth is that those just above them seized the chance. A little bit richer, a little bit more intellectual, they stepped up to the political levels, and the working class was… eradicated. A genocide, Savras calls it, sponsored by the Federation. No one sees it, because… supposedly being poor and lower class is not a worthy life, and so… why mourn that the class disappears? You just assume it means that people get a higher quality of life – that it’s the poverty that’s slain, but in reality, it’s the people who are dying. But it doesn’t matter, because they weren’t dignified enough to be allowed to live, I suppose – and because they held –  _ still hold _ – hope, they suffocate on the bright future they hoped for. So,” he poured himself some more Kanar, “Don’t hope for me.  _ Believe _ in me. Hope never changed anything.” The soursweet taste of the slimy treats Garak fed himself through the lecture fit perfectly with the discourse.

“I shall miss your unsweetened words when you leave,” he couldn’t help but admit. “I’ve missed a friend like you, one who can live in the Federation’s glass castle, look through the stained glasses and see them for what they are. No matter how pretty the colors, the reality behind them is no less tainted than the glass is tinted,” he laid a hand on Elem’s knee in a gesture of approval, maybe more. “To believe, however, is very un-Cardassian in certain ways,” he leaned forth a little, like searching for an opportunity to bite his prey. “But maybe I am un-Cardassian in this way; maybe this plain, simple tailor, has a taste for faithfulness,” he teased the other with an unspoken promise. “I shall believe in you, Elem.” He was close enough to feel the scent of alcohol in the other’s breath, but drew back. “But what do  _ you _ believe in? Convictions make for an interesting life after all, they rise you when your mind writhes in darkness, they drive you when your legs can’t hold you no more, they consume you ...or transcend you. They shatter and gather,” he fished for Elem’s fingertips, his own brushing and dancing in caress and embrace. “With those eyes of yours, merciless in their stark blackness, unyielding to the colorful lies of the Federation… can you ever abide to the darker promises of Cardassia? Will you sit among the deceitful or the deceived?” he hid himself behind a grin, studying the way the other would walk into the choice or somersault out of it.

“You cannot choose to be deceived, it’s not deceit if you know of the other’s game – is it?” Elem asked with warm contemplation, leaning in for a kiss, but then removing himself to lift Garak’s hand to his lips instead, breathing on it, “You know I only wish to serve. And if I serve, I cannot be deceived, for all I do, I do gladly.” He pressed his lips against the other’s knuckles, and his own at the same time, granting his kindness to the both of them. The tailor shivered. The scales at the back of his neck and all along the spine had messages running through them, and his throat was warming up. His cheeks too.

“There  _ is _ deceit in willful servitude,” he whispered to the corner of his friend’s lips. He took a breath and moved to the ridge leading to his left ear, “This is Cardassia, Elem. Sacrifice is a comfort, and comfort is a lie just as sweet as hope,” he purred. “You will not be an exception ...unless you choose the terms of your service,” he murmured behind his ear and exhaled against the scales attaching there. “But no matter the submission you choose, I won’t think any less of you. You’ll always be an exception in my garden,” he took in the sent of his hair while caressing his right jaw with their entwined knuckles. “I know, it’s dark and lonely; the flowers aren’t many, but I care for each of them with feelings as unique as they are, dressed in petals, thorns or poison,” he nuzzled his way back along the cheek to face him again with quiet, daring blue eyes. “You’re quite an invasive specie, aren’t you? Entangling and attaching,” he teased gently. “I hope you stay here. I  _ believe _ you’ll stay here,” he offered his lips, holding over the gap of a possible denial. Elem had closed his eyes. This dance of words dizzied him, and it was a comfortable, energizing drowsiness that grew in his chest, the pit of his stomach and the tickle of his thighs. Relaxed, he extended himself, a gentle touch, mind against mind, he invited Garak to come into him.

_ “And for whose sake should I stay?” _ – the tailor gasped shortly at the mental touch. He felt like closing the distance, but held the line.

_ “Mine,” _ he admitted in such honesty it should have been a lie.  _ “Maybe yours if you have use for our friendship. Whether it may be comfort or burden, I cannot fathom yet; you are quite unpredictable,” _ he grew fond, yet couldn’t prevent a sting of pain from showing up in the path of his thoughts.  _ “I don’t know which of us tortures me most…” _ he felt disorientated and had to cling to the other. He could feel the scales of a shoulder leading down a sleeveless arm, and the warmth of his breath coming back to him after it winded over the other’s skin. He thought he’d been satiated with Julian’s company. He hadn’t imagined how indulging in his feelings for the doctor would open the gates for more cravings.  _ “I don’t want to be alone… I need to know someone home cares for me…” _ came the strangled realization. It choked him quite violently. “You’ve come to matter…” he excused his despair. A coldness filled his chest but the rest of him was positively burning. His heart beat slow, but it beat strong. He’d opened his eyes and straightened up, but his fingers still clung to Elem, trailing down his arms to caress skin and scales with comforting tenderness. “ _ You’ve come to matter, _ ” a fragile wetness vibrated in the blue of his eyes.  _ “Rinauy si’zař,” _ he reiterated the thought in Kardasi.

Garak’s cold fear brushed against Elem’s calmness, sending small waves of anxiety through him. The engineer wrapped protective arms around his friend and held him close, kissed the teardrop at his forehead, then nuzzled it.

_ “You know how I feel,” _ he stroked Garak’s back with warm hands _ , “how I’ll keep on feeling. Such things defy not only logic, but also our explicit wishes,” _ he smiled and took a deep breath,  _ “let us pretend that we are lovers, let us pretend that we belong to one another. Just for this night,” _ he kissed the shape of Garak’s forehead again, “Let us do what’s forbidden, with no inhibitions. Feel what you wish to feel, and let me do the same. I won’t hurt you,” he spoke. Was it a genuine promise or a trick? Garak couldn’t help but search for the deceit in the other’s mind. Or maybe it was simply Elem’s own selfishness speaking, his needs and desires? He wanted to believe, but caution remained in the most reptilian parts of his brain – the fire in his body however kept on rising with a knowledge of its own, and flames certainly flickered along with the wetness in his eyes. He was a bit lost, as he looked at the other, still hanging over the precipice. Then somehow, he found he’d crossed it in a way neither of them expected, probably.

_ “Mici,” _ he pronounced in the other’s mind as he reached for his lips and brushed them with his own,  _ “Mitahci,” _ he deepened the kiss, finally letting his body indulge in the warmth it seeked to share. “Tonight,” he breathed in between more  _ mici _ and  _ mitahci _ , “I’ll teach you more Kardasi.” He nuzzled him more sweetly as their lips last parted.  _ “Mimma,” _ he murmured to his mind.  _ “I never could understand how it comes Federation tongue has so few words for ‘kisses’ when our species has so many words for those.” _ Elem had no answer to this question and just let his fingers lace the two of them together in a careful grip. Then he got up, dragging Garak with him, to stand at a distance and look him over – his eyelids were heavy with dizzy thoughts.

“And do you dance, mister Garak? What kind of music do you have back home?” The question made the tailor laugh – it was daring, but he could appreciate it.

“I do,” he grinned, recovering more stability, “and we have a large variety of genres, from the more militaristic ones to the softer ones. Songs of love, of contemplation or devotion, dramatic operas and humouring rhythms, and tunes for dancing of course. Many,” he stole a chaste kiss. “Are you a good dancer, Mister Kel?”

“I have a decent sense for rhythm,” he answered and stole his kiss back, releasing Garak’s hand only to rest them against his chest, “and from the way you tailor these clothes, I would think you do, too. It is not so unalike to singing – music, Mister Garak, is in my skin, my blood, my breath... try me.”

“If you so wish to be guilty,” Garak led the both of them away from furniture, eyes shining with amusement and a certain satisfaction as he felt that he might be holding true to his promise of entertaining his friend. “Let’s start with  _ sakaa̅n tari _ ,” he suggested and showed him how to hold the different stances, explaining how to communicate with finger contact to signal intentions to switch from a position to another, and how to agree or refuse. The moves themselves weren’t complicated, allowing for the dancers to be close or parted, or very close – Garak needed not specify it was a courting dance. The game of possibilities was the same for the both of them, the only difference being where fingers entwined. “The woman is the one holding the man’s hand,” Garak told. “She dominates.”

Then, when Elem appeared comfortable enough, the tailor addressed the computer to access one of the tracks he’d retrieved from the archives of Terok Nor. Soft percussions called for the flutes and string instruments, higher pitches vocalizing on a warm bassline marking the tempo. Garak grinned at his partner, admiring his body in motion and the quickness with which Elem held to the tune. The flow came naturally to the engineer, as if his body knew this dance already, as if the choreography had been designed around reflexes and instincts present in all Cardassians. The tailor could feel his neck tickling in places as blood pumped through his veins to sustain the effort, and he took pleasure in observing the same in the other. Slower at first, the pace increased along the play, forcing swifter movements, harsher and more angular as seduction heated into an almost argumentative fight, and by the time the music stopped, Elem had Garak against the wall, one hand on each side of his head. His breath came out fast and ragged against the tailor’s lips, and Garak’s otherwise so tidy hair had been roughed by the movements, framing him as the source of this unruly game. Still, Elem closed the distance between them and silenced his own breath with Garak’s mouth, drinking the heat of him, the softness of his tongue, a long, slow and deep kiss whose name hadn’t yet been revealed to him.

_ “Mitran,” _ Garak purred to his student’s mind. He felt hot and somewhat aroused by the wholeness of the situation. The lust in him was no longer simply tender nor intellectual, it was growing to be sexual too, and a part of him wondered if it was even correct to pursue the wants of his body. His hands conquered Elem’s hips, feeling the fabric and the ridges underneath, like a tease to his senses, and Elem teased himself the same way with the ridges of Garak’s neck. He explored them with luscious fingertips, curious lips and a tongue hungry for the flavor of skin and scales. Flames  rose fast through the empathic bond between them; Elem found himself most enchanted by the desire he could wake in another. The response alone was addictive. Moans, gasps and self-control escaped Garak, and for a second he thought he was going to have a claustrophobia attack from the close, close, intimate proximity and the pressure of his own clothes around him. Eyes flickering as he tried to still down his breath, he managed to interrupt Elem a second. Quickly, he removed his shirt, tossing it further away to recover more freedom. He looked at his friend and lover with a darkness to his cheeks, and dragged him closer again, mentally pleading for more. Elem indulged him, eyes closed – Garak was even more real when he was scent, touch and flavour. He traced fingertips over collarbones, following the flow of scales to the center of his chest, where he lingered for a moment, to steal a kiss from his lips again.

“What do you call this place?” he asked distantly, “It is a gift, is it not? So close to the heart, the cinders of pride, the gleam of home, love, devotion, loyalty – and you are loyal. I feel it in you, the strength, the faith, unwavering, but never blind.”

“ _ Sehhed _ ,” Garak pronounced the hissing sound, knowing full well it would not be translated. It was a word one could breath, and the tailor moaned it in a ragged whine of pleasure. “It’s a treasure, a remnant of long-forgotten stories, a tale that never was, and a light in the ashes,” he echoed.

“Sehhed,” Elem mimicked the sound, licking his lips and finally looking down at the chest pendant, thoughtful fingers still treating it with attention. The light from the candles reflected there, warm and soft. Temptation won, and Elem leaned closer, pressing his lips there, tasting the hollow and the highs, pressing wet warmth fully over the surface while sultry hands traveled further down to settle on Garak’s arms, then the brim of his pants, seeking to undo them. The scales he kissed and licked were sensitive in a way that was different from the neck, but equally powerful. Many nerves laid in the area, making the spot vulnerable ...to pleasure too. Holding himself against the wall and clinging to Elem’s hips again, the tailor freed his feet from his boots so he could soon free himself from his pants too, hopefully.

_ “Betazoids refer to their beloved as ‘imzadi’, Trills prefer ‘beloved’. When, in Cardassia, I will find someone to love, what shall I call him?” _ Elem spoke with his mind what his busy mouth couldn’t. The tailor struggled a little to think as his friend washed his crest, sending strange sensations all over his body. His every erogenous zones responded positively, soaking his consciousness in a pinkish orange and golden haze while darkness rose from below.

“ _ Shamar _ ,” Garak finally picked, pronouncing it both aloud and mentally. “It is the one you choose out of love.  _ Tahkmar _ is more commonly a tender calling to the dear.  _ Súlim _ is the one you enjoin. And  _ luzzur _ is a very special friend, a word like a chest to hide the intricacies of intimacy so to reflect what is, without the limitations of a definition,” he added that one. “Because I was unfit to know what is else is its calling you in this native tongue mine,” he panted, losing his Federal grammar for a moment. His hands had buried themselves in Elem’s black hair, and he was as lost in the dark as his fingers were – the words were echoed against his skin, as Elem repeated them between licks and kisses, to his heart, and then further down, as he followed the fabric to the floor, like riding a slow waterfall until he was on his knees, looking up.

“Luzzur,” he repeated with a shy blush, “I like it,” he diverted his eyes and nuzzled the hardness in Garak’s underwear, “I like you,” he added, steadying himself with his hands at his hips, simply breathing, “I adore you, my sweet friend.” He’d made his words more affectionate, but didn’t want to press feelings on the other that he knew he couldn’t repay. Garak slew down his breath. A detail felt wrong and it took him a few seconds to figure what exactly. Then, he smiled again and invited Elem to look at him.

“Elem…” he spoke his name and stepped aside, sliding down his underwear as he kneeled as well, “I don’t want to be on top,” he had the courage to tell. He was met with questioning eyes and mild confusion. The tailor tried not to feel ashamed and simply tried to phrase himself better, opting not to go for some medical explanation like Julian would have. “I wish to be underneath and to surrender,” he whispered fondly. “The way we feel for each other in feelings and sensations is unequal, but like my desire can hardly be ignored, I wish not to ignore your feelings either. I am fond of you,  _ luzzur _ …” Elem understood but was still at loss, for other reasons.

“I haven’t really... been from this direction before,” he tried to explain, but it felt awkward and a bit dumb once he’d put words into it, so he fell silent instead, rubbing the other’s hands and shuffling closer, seeking for more kisses, more answers, more feelings. Like a shy presence, he pushed himself into Garak’s mind, nesting there, in the bed he’d already prepared for the both of them.  _ “I set you free,” _ he whispered in his mind as he pushed forward, until Garak laid on his back on the floor, and he himself laid over him, his head against his shoulder, breathing onto his neck. The tailor couldn’t help but laugh a little, and it certainly wasn’t mocking in anyway. In fact, it was quite warm and joyful. In a way, it was reassuring to be on the same level, even if it was some embarrassing level of awkwardness. At least, they were in this together, and he hugged and kissed his friend.

“I liked it what you did with your tongue,” he confessed, “or maybe you’d like to use your hands?” he left a way out.  _ “Or lift up that dress and give me a nice feel of you,” _ the greedy thought escaped him. He flushed. “I- I didn’t mean,” he stuttered in apology. Elem blushed a deep darkness at that and he hid his face in Garak’s neck for a while.

“I- I would think we’d need lube for that,” he stuttered as he straightened back up a bit, looking at Garak, then at himself through Garak’s eyes, which for some reason made him even more intrigued by the concept. He shushed himself  _ and _ Garak with a kiss, before trailing his neck with his tongue again, turning the situation from awkward to hot, then very hot as he continued down over his chest, his stomach, his hot, slick member, licking it too – was saliva good enough to be lube? Elem didn’t know, he thought it might be. It wasn’t as if it would disturb him greatly if it hurt – but then, it might hurt Garak, and  _ that _ would probably disturb him. Garak on his behalf was losing the track of what exactly happened how, but it was all quite enjoyable amidst mental confusion. He shivered.

_ “The oil from below is all we naturally need, but you are part-Betazoid, so… From the replicator afford some lube we could, I suppose,” _ he haphazardly thought and Elem appreciated the caring better-safe-than-sorry sentiment.

_ “Don’t be afraid of how you phrase yourself, spontaneous rawness can be very arousing,” _ he slipped the thought into the other’s mind along with his own presence, and found that he didn’t want to visit the replicator just yet, instead licking, treating his lover’s tip with his tongue tip, then suckling, warming, wetting, feeling the touch on Garak’s body, like it was his own, robing himself in his obvious pleasure.  _ “I doubt you could hurt me, so don’t hold your tongue,” _ he flicked his own tongue to make a point, then took the entire erection in his mouth, engulfing him, slow movements, until he felt dizzied by the sensation and had to remove himself to breathe. Half-raised onto his elbows, the tailor stared at Elim with intense fascination. Elem, rather. His grip on which was whom was turning as slippery as other parts of him, and he felt nothing but enthused and aroused by the strange experience; the roughness his lover wished for did have a tint of seduction to it.

“Get up and get the lube now,” he ordered with more authority and was pleased to see his luzzur obey at once, diligent and eager to serve and please. Elem returned quickly but remained standing for a while, just taking in the sight in front of him – and sharing it with Garak. To let him not only see what Elem saw, but feel what he felt about it. The desire, the love, the urge to protect, the urge to bring pleasure, to reap pleasure, to fuck, to get fucked, to kiss, whisper and hiss.

“Take off your underwear but keep the dress,” Garak gulped and ordered daringly – was he doing it right? This wasn’t Julian; there were no safeguards, only lust and lack of experience in such games. “Maybe… maybe it’s time for safewords,” he considered when Elem kneeled in front of him to spread lube on his malehood, like a second coat of slickness. “Even if you think I can’t hurt you, I want to be certain that I won’t. I want to know if you have the least uncomfort,” he smiled softly, though fire still danced in his eyes. And not just from the candlelights. Elem smirked a little where he was.

“I don’t think it’s necessary in this situation,” he mentioned casually as he evened the lube in daring caresses, then looked up at Garak with a dangerous glint to his eyes,  _ “You’re inside my mind, I’m inside of yours, I think we’ll  _ **_know_ ** _ if either of us is uncomfortable. Relax into my mind, trust me. I’ll remain open to you,” _ he worked with rather expert moves – he wasn’t unused to those moves at least. Yet, he found himself fascinated with the texture, the slippery, sliding sliminess, the glimmer of light in the wetness he treated the other. He felt shameless as Garak looked him do just as shamelessly.

_ “I’ll trust you then…” _ Garak agreed to do without safewords, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. “E- Elem… Come onto me now. Ride me like ...your life depends on it,” he dipped his words into dirtier talk with caution – it wasn’t something he was used to in any way, and his frames of reference probably weren’t the most appropriate.  “You wanted me to try you. Now get your ass pinned on me like a desperate culprit trying to bribe his way out of the interrogation chamber with sexual favors – it never works, but, this time, I’ll be the one to let you  _ try _ ,” he grinned, finding himself oddly candid and prude-worded, parted between lust and amusement.

“Of course it never works... I’ll have to  _ seduce  _ you first,” Elem hiked up his dress over his knees and purred as he let his legs spread apart more now that they were freed from the garment’s grip. Equally as slowly, he moved forward to sit over Garak’s erection, not yet granting his wish, instead just looking down at him, candlelights glistening in his dark eyes, a cocky smile growing over his lips, “My dear, sweet friend, my luzzur, my wrongful indulgence, what  _ shall _ I do with you?” he teased and leaned down, gracing the tailor’s lips with the lightest of kisses, “Or perhaps,” he spoke against the other’s lips, “I should ask,” he licked them, “what I shall do  _ to _ you...” He deepened the kiss, made it hot, sultry, sweet and spicy.

“Now I’m no longer sure which one of us is the prisoner or the tormentor,” the spy admitted as their lips parted. He licked his lips, feeling the taste of his lover on them. “Are you going to make me beg for more? Because I  _ want _ more,” he stared at the other with hunger in his eyes. He could feel desire in his hot member as if the organ had a consciousness of its own and pulled upward to reach and explore darker depths. The tailor moved his hands to touch the other’s knees and drove his right one to hold his malehood while the left one pulled one of his lover’s buttocks to ease the penetration to come. “Please…”

And Elem obliged, slowly filling them both with the burning sensation as he sheathed himself around the bold, thick, sensitive proof of Garak’s desire. His  _ own _ desire, for he too was hard and slick and ached, inside and outside. The first strokes were even and slow, accompanied by gasps – his own or Garak’s he wasn’t sure; very likely it was both. He steadied himself against the other’s chest, curling his fingers over his skin, clawing at the ribcage beneath.

_ “You are my pleasure now,” _ he whispered inside of his mind,  _ “my beautiful tormentor, my slave to conviction, my liquid release, my tease, my liege...” _ Each word punctuated by kisses, each kiss turned broken by moans and whimpers as Garak moved along inside Elim. Or Elem. The poetry in his mind was ember-weaved, lust-entwined, serpentine in its mental slithering.

“Elim…” he clung to him, nails digging deeper and yielding pleasure. “Elem,” he distantly corrected himself. He moved faster yet, deeper. The friction from the floor underneath hurt and burned, but it felt all too good as pain turned into pleasure through Elem. It was almost like having the implant turned on again, and his body was still very responsive to the treatment, yielding endorphins with ease. The half-Betazoid straightened up to ride him upright, lifting the skirt some more with one hand, and treating his own thirsty snake some charms with his other hand, all while watching Garak. He blended their visions again, looking at himself through the tailor’s eyes – feverish, dreamy-eyed, lips parted in rough panting, hair undone, a neckscale bleeding from a scratch he earned he wasn’t sure when – not that he cared.

“Elim…” Garak moaned louder and took seconds, this time, to realize it wasn’t the right name. But it was hardly important to Elem which of them was which. Even the fact that they had separate names was unimportant.

_ “How do you call it, what I do to myself this instant?” _ he asked,  _ “Speak Kardasi to me, Elim.” _

_ “Ta,” _ Garak taught him, pronouncing the word aloud to let the translator reveal the meaning, “Hand.” And he continued with more words,  _ Tamaherin, tamaherinkai, rtin, ruslar, nudoi, tahkkelivah, súkvah, ijasúktivah, nulmilapúivah. _ “Handjob, masturbation, penis, dick, cock, comfort woman, slut, whore, snake-licker,” as the level of language degraded down to more obscene parts of the dictionary, away went the translation, soon forcing the tailor to translate telepathically instead. Pre-cum laced Elem’s fingers and he had to abandon his position to collapse over Garak, clawing at him, kissing him, rubbing himself against his stomach, pressing himself tight to increase the friction.

“I thirst for your knowledge,” he spoke between licks and lips, “your words, your voice, your tongue, your hands, the open doors of your murmuring wisdom; you are my black poetry, my curse, my occult wet dream, the leaking letters from a closed and locked book, luzzur –” words like magic and religion, a same forbidden incantation – “Lick my pleasure with your cloven tongue, heal the wounds with your white venom, grant me the gift of your sharp promise,” he let out an exhausted laughter. Out of breath and reason, he was coming and so was Garak, but he wasn’t even sure what was happening to him, or them, really. The energy drain was dizzying. Garak’s eyes flickered as he started to regain his senses but he smiled in contentment and kissed his lover.

“Elem…” he murmured the name, almost as to remind himself which of them was whom. “Elim…” he had to remember his own name too and chuckled bitterly. “I hadn’t planned for this,” he admitted, not specifying what exactly he was referring to, but letting the other straighten up so they could contemplate the mess. Elem couldn’t help but feel both satisfied and a little concerned. He’d told Garak to let himself say and do what he wanted to, without any censorship, and he’d applied the same rules to himself, but even then, he worried about what impression Garak was left with in the end – probably that Elem was an impulsive slut, one who would lay with just anybody who was remotely possible to lay with. The inequality of their feelings didn’t help; Elem knew he should’ve left Garak well alone. Knew that those feelings had never been his to indulge in, anyway.

“I think I’d like a shower,” he mumbled and rubbed himself where he was bleeding, absently spreading the blood over the skin, “and then we can eat, I’m starving.”

“So am I,” Garak could feel the change in the other and, remembering Julian’s words after their last time, caught his luzzur’s waist as he raised up to look into his eyes. He approached until their noses touched, and kissed him gently, chastely. “It was good…” he whispered. “Not entirely decent, I suppose, but I’d do it again.” His smile got a little bit tighter. There wouldn’t be another time either. Elem was going to Cardassia and would get enjoined there, and he would be faithful, Garak knew. “I only wish my name weren’t a curse, and I hope it won’t affect you, luzzur,” he added as he helped his lover get up, and gently walked the both of them to the bathroom.

“On the contrary,” Elem answered, one arm around Elim’s waist, steadying himself against him, “it means I got my promise in the end: I’m taking a piece of you with me, back to Cardassia. In my name,” he grinned cheekily, then calmed a little and leaned his head against Elim’s shoulder, “Once I get there, I will try to send you gifts, but it might not be very often. It would get suspicious, and I guess not very safe, for either of us.”

“Indeed,” Garak agreed. “And a dangerous effort for the sake of someone whose name ending flutters in the air,” he pointed as they entered the bathroom, still a bit salty about Glain’s comments.

“Butterflies also flutter in the air, and they are pretty,” Elem pointed out as he started getting out of his dress, which Garak made disappear in the washing panel, “Is there anything in particular you’d want? As a gift. From Cardassia,” he elaborated and went into the shower, leaning against the wall and starting the sonic shower on a low pitch.

“While sonic showers are practical and effective to get clean, I must admit I miss… water. A warm bath, to relax. If you ever were to find a holoprogram of Cardassian therms, I must admit I would quite enjoy it,” he smiled, leaning only a shoulder against the wall so he could keep on enjoying the sight of his friend. The bleeding at his neck had stopped on its own and the shower cleaned the blood. The tailor set his left hand on Elem’s torso to touch the scales there, and Elem took it with fondness, rubbing his fingers. “Meanwhile…” Garak continued, “replicated food isn’t bad, of course – except for some of the programs that couldn’t really be restored correctly, I’m afraid,” he winced at the thought of them – “but  _ fresh food _ is ...something else. A warm bath and a good meal… it may be mundane, but down to it, I suppose it’s the mundanity I miss. Luxury, Elem, starts with those simple things.”

“I think I’ll be able to get that for you,” he mumbled with a content sigh – knowing that he’d make his friend happy was satisfactory in itself. “Would you like me to rub your back a bit? I find that it eases the shower, and makes for pleasant company.” Garak agreed with a nod.

“Do you remember anything from that time when we were at the infirmary together, trying to stay alive?” he asked fondly, recalling the memories to his mind and offering to share them. “It was dire, but I never thought you were going to die. I knew you would live. I knew we would both live through our ordeals,” he smiled. He thought of the help he gave, but also of the care Timun provided, professional and efficient. They had their doctors to save their lives. But Melekor paused himself mid-motion, then shook his head a little.

“Would you mind if we  _ didn’t _ talk about the infirmary?” it was too late, though, as he was already thinking of Maniel, and eventually he slumped and leaned his forehead against Garak’s back. “I laid next to him, until we both fell asleep. And when Doctor Bashir woke me again, he was gone,” his voice broke a little, “he’s gone, because I survived.” Garak cursed himself mentally for a second.

“He’s gone because he committed suicide and that was  _ his _ choice,” he turned around. “I don’t know what training he went through, nor what rules bound him, but I can ensure you that an agent  _ always _ has choices. If it brings you any comfort, luzzur… if not for the treptacederine you helped me acquire, I would have given a more serious consideration to opt out of this life. But you gave me respite, you gave me time, and I made the difficult choice to  _ trust _ others to care for me, even if it means I now have to protect them,” he held Elem’s face and looked into his eyes. “I am bound to this place. My means are restricted. But I will be vigilant, and I will keep on believing in you, Elem. I know you are a survivor too,” he smiled, albeit a little bitterly. Elem smiled back at him, but pain still hid in his wet eyes. The spy sighed and held him for a moment, humming gently. The melody shaped into words, but he thought them in Kardasi so Elem could somehow hear the tune in its native language.

 

“Si’úmbet velúr sahú et’zadi irn kezú,

_ The sun has a shadow in which we stand, _

Semhojay teca, et’vahain ejvahn,

_ Invisible sights, silhouettes among the people, _

Si’únoút ek’volarú va irn urasú,

_ We live to warm up the night, _

Dovavut sai lõunakai kiokalaú si’irn.”

_ And that is why we wear its darkness on ourselves. _

 

“Va kúnaglinay únoú mú si’irn,

_ We are the night made into stone, _

Piúmbinavy vut konúgomay mú.

_ Starless and unwavering. _

Vramay va nizakai mai’irin,

_ Cold is our dedication, _

Dovavut i’umbet evalúkt irn,

_ And that is why we rise the sun, _

Son arkelen mai’irin,

_ As our duty, _

Nèr canmirit i’malinú maelin,

_ When morning never comes, _

...Va canmirit i’malinú maelin.”

_...And morning never comes. _

 

“Umbet’i volari pa’sahú va ek’yirn,

_ The warmth of the sun isn’t for us, _

Va canmirit i’malinú maelin.”

_ And morning never comes. _

 

Elem could hum the melody too, committing it to memory with ease, and Garak smirked.

“You  _ do _ sing extremely well, my dear,” he acknowledged, “and if you  _ ever _ hear anyone singing this tune, do not trust them ever,” he said maliciously before leading them out the bathroom so he could retrieve his clothes and grant some to his guest.

“I used to take singing classes with Maniel,” Melekor finally indulged Garak in his more removed thoughts, “I quit the group when he disappeared. And now... I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sing without thinking of him.” Garak knew that one song far too well.

“I believe you had classes in psychology? Did you have any about the guilt of the survivor?” he asked as he picked his clothes, hesitating to put them on, and folding them by reflex instead. “I can’t help but have a more personal thought for the others,” he turned around. “You are the friend he  _ died for _ , as you would say, and you guilt yourself over the selfish choice he made because you also made a selfish choice. Now, what about the others? You were not Maniel’s only friend, I can ensure you. They did care to get his body back after all,” he pointed. “And they knew him. They knew he still loved you. And all they can do now is to curse themselves for not forbidding him to go on this mission and discarding his life like this.” He sighed, trying not to think of Enkem, amongst others. “Each of his friends had this little thing in common with him. A dish they shared together, an idiom they favored, a color they enjoyed wearing… but they won’t stop eating this food, using this idiom or wearing this color, or else their lives will become dull and joyless. It is part of an agent’s training to be prepared to lose cherished ones.” He paused a second, holding a doubt to himself, then chose not to speak of the suspicions that had creeped onto him earlier – could Maniel have staged all this as a way to see his dear friend one last time and part ways, where Melekor couldn’t follow him, knowing Melekor was leaving to where Maniel couldn’t follow him either? It wasn’t so far-fetched, but it wasn’t something Elem could afford to hear right now.

“You’re not an agent, and this was a traumatic way to lose a friend…” Garak said instead, “But you don’t have to put everything you shared with him to the grave,” he held Elem’s shoulder. “You were so eager to sing, and you sang so well… Do you know your brother sings too? And your father as well. He has a splendid voice. He must have passed it to you,” he smiled warmly. “Those classes you had, those moments with Maniel… do not let them be in vain. If you no longer sing because of sadness, what good will it do? Sadness exists to be overcome,” he came closer to wrap his arm around the other and nuzzle him.

“Does it?” Elem had to wonder, although he relaxed into the tailor’s words, “It’s just simple logic, isn’t it? It  _ is _ my fault, and who am I to live in his stead? I’m a terrible person.”

“You know, if you don’t like being a terrible person, you could always choose another profession – it’s not like you are very talented at being a terrible person, if I should be honest, considering the most terrible thing you’ve done was to try to meet an old, beloved friend. Maybe you could become a tailor, or a gardener,” he suggested. “Gardening is especially soothing. Tailoring requires a little more social interaction however, and there’s always the risk of having a doctor snooping around with hopes of uncovering some dark mysteries about you,” he rolled his eyes. “Alright, come to think of it,  _ maybe _ you would be better suited to become ...an engineer?” he raised an eyeridge. Elem couldn’t help but to snort a little and withdraw from the other, looking at the ceiling a bit before regaining eye-contact.

“Doctors  _ are _ terribly snoopy, aren’t they?” he muttered and crossed his arms over his chest, “Speaking of doctors, are you familiar with one Crell Moset? I’m supposed to contact him, once I get to Cardassia.” Garak gave him a look of amused disbelief, then looked at the clothes folded on his arm with a pinch of confusion – he’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to put them on, and had turned oblivious to his and his guest’s naked states.

“Let’s get us  _ and _ the table dressed first,” he decided and quickly headed to the wardrobe to get clean underwear. He picked some for Elem too and handed him a canvas bag from his shop.

“I believe this should fit you,” he commented and turned his back to him to grant him an illusion of privacy, only observing him through the mirror in the wardrobe. “Doctors are snoopy, and they can be real pests at times,” the tailor hooked back to the conversation, “but they usually mean well, and can indeed save your life ...or carry out other services for you. Which makes me think…” he licked his teeth with caution, “it’s always good to have a doctor at hand when things turn sour.” It took a while for Elem to answer anything, as he was stuck in his observation of the dress.

The sleeves were rather long and elegant, and the cut of the bodice was most well thought out; it really made him appear more female, he realized, as he looked into the mirror over Garak’s shoulder, and noticed the other was watching him too.

“...Do you like it?” the tailor thought to ask.

“It’s perfect,” he grinned, flexing his fingers a little, “it makes me feel... light,” he added, turning around on the spot then stopping thoughtfully, “are you trying to tell me to find a doctor for a husband?” – Garak looked at him, still pondering whether to tell the truth or not. It might be best, but it felt obscene.

“Not exactly, but I suppose a doctor can make for a good husband,” he answered. “I’m glad you appreciate this cut, it does fit you well,” he paced around Elem to observe him. “I think I’ve rarely been so pleased with one of my creations,” he cared to admit. “It’s probably because the model has such an interesting personality,” he grinned as he finally went to the replicator to start the program he’d prepared earlier – a Cardassian dish of bird fried in keheth – a batter containing varied sorts of eggs, including hard-boiled bits of egg – and accompanied with sem’hal balls and yamok sauce. The sem’hal balls were a bit squished in shape, likely molded by pressing them in between the hands before dipping them in small, black, seasoned tika seeds. The tailor placed the plates on the table and added cutlery, glasses and a bottle of water for proper hydration.

“As much as I hate to be frank,” Garak told as they both sat at the table, “I’d rather be over with this. It’s only a slip of information I had to pass to you,” he began. “I had a visitor yesterday, one Trillian doctor who likely had an enlightening conversation with a Betazoid woman quite well-versed in Cardassian matters,” he spoke clearly but fast. “She gave him some advice, which he tried to follow, to no avail. His simple quest was to apologize to one delicious person on way to become  a Cardassian citizen, even though he wished naught more but to grant this very person with space and distance for their own comfort. Knowing they wouldn’t agree to see him nor receive anything coming from him directly, he seeked my help – I must be starting to be known as a most masterful matchmaker  _ and _ mediator as well,” he joked. “This said, I won’t question your grudges, Elem, but so far, I would agree that Doctor Lykes is loyal to you. And that’s about the extent of what I have to say.” Elem maintained a neutral expression while Melekor, by pure reflex, took over the handling of things.

“I see,” he answered stiffly as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I had feelings for him,” he told him dryly, after considering whether there were any downsides to sharing this, “a relationship I  _ knew  _ I couldn’t pursue – then- then I shared something about myself that I shouldn’t have. Things went downwards from there, which was good. I decided to be disagreeable to put distance between us, and he decided to do the same,” his lips thinned, “by selling out my friend to those terrorists. Yes. He’s  _ that  _ petty. He wanted me to hate him, and he has no right to complain about it now that I do. In all honesty, I wish I could kill him and get away with it.” Garak licked his lips. This was exactly what Lykes was trying to avoid.

“I do not think that was his intention, and I think anyone who cares for you would have done just the same. For all I know, he tried to warn security as well, and you know what were the risks, because you are the one who lived. It could have been otherwise,” he pointed with a forkful of sem’hal and meat, before directing the food to his own mouth.

“If Maniel would’ve killed me, I would still have forgiven him,” Melekor pointed as he leaned forwards to serve himself from the food, “At least  _ he _ had values and purpose to guide him, but Lykes... Lykes took a secret that I would’ve never told him –  _ Glain _ was the one who told him Maniel’s name – and he shared it with people he  _ knew  _ would wish him dead. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t directly kill him, because it was his intention and act to do it  _ indirectly _ . So much for being a doctor!” he stabbed a bit of meat with his fork and the stuffed it into his mouth, chewing on it as if it were Lykes’ head.

“And so you wish to meet Crell Moset?” Garak didn’t lose in ease. “Doctors are among the most morally grey persons that can be. They constantly must make questionable choices, after all.  _ They _ get to decide what is considered a disease, parasite or symbiosis, what is a handicap or evolution, which mutations are good or bad, which people get prioritized to either live or die… Their positions constantly change and they kill people out of good intents as much as they save criminals, sometimes even by granting someone a life they did not wish, or by allowing tyrants to escape sentence and punishment through swift and painless death,” he smiled. “Their immanence makes them more permeable and malleable. However, each man has a limit. I do not think Lykes wished for your friend to die in anyway. He was too naive to imagine such a possibility, and too focused on wanting you to live.” He shook his head a little as he gathered more food in his fork, “Typical of Federation citizen who lived in, ah… ‘paradise.’”

“So, what you mean is that Maniel is dead because Lykes is an ignorant idiot?” Elem shot back, letting out a short  _ ha! _ Garak didn’t reply to that in particular.

“But Elem, would  _ you _ really get him killed over this?” he had to ask instead. “Killing a man you had feelings for won’t bring your friend back to life.”

“I didn’t say I was  _ going _ to kill him, just that I wished I could; there’s too much trouble involved in actually doing it. And no,” he added hastily, “I don’t suppose killing him would bring Dalkar back, but it would make me feel like I  _ did _ something. And I am sure it would feel good, too.” The tailor nodded.

“Possibly… Still, I would agree that it would be a lot of trouble, and I would advise against any such attempt. Theory often feels better than practice when it comes to this.” Elem looked sidewise at Garak, eyes thinning.

“You really think I’d do it,” he accused once the cogwheels had spun full circle, “You think I’d have Timun Lykes killed,” he contemplated this over a mouthful of food, then added, after swallowing, “I’m capable of it. But I have others to think of; my family.”

“My dear, do not take it personally, but in Cardassia, most everybody is a potential murderer through indirect means. Your own brother seeks to eradicate someone, and your father is a Conservator,” he went forth, in case Elem would realize the possibility later on. “You could, but again… Don’t. Your friend, Miss Wayan, is to become Miss Lykes, I believe? She may not be able to visit you often, but it is always good to have friends, even on subspace. Do you know she threatened me after we first met?” he sighed at the thought. “She does have some strength,” he reckoned and tugged his collar as if he’d just been assaulted. “She cares for you. And it is good to have friends who care for you.” Elem looked aside.

“And I care for her. Enough that I haven’t told her that Lykes’ feelings for me are stronger than the ones he has to her,” he made a sour face, “she already had her heart broken, I don’t want it to happen again – I don’t understand why he insists on going to Cardassia with  _ me _ when he should be going with  _ her _ .”

“Hm, there were some interesting shifts in Miss Wayan’s attitude that I must admit I might have noticed,” the tailor grinned. “From shocked, worried and embarrassed with her status of exilee, I believe she’s become  _ quite _ confident after deciding not to come along with you to Cardassia. Having closely observed how protective she is, and how loyal and abiding Lykes is – he did hand himself over to detention a number of time,” he thought to mention, “I have personally come to the conclusion that Miss Wayan did not wish for his company on her mysterious travel to the Gamma quadrant. Or wherever she went to. Another personal of guess of mine would have me bet she could be seeking to retrieve her citizenship. After all, exiling people  _ can _ be a practical way to have them work for you without having to be responsible for their actions… Not that I would know a lot about desperation, but I do have a fertile imagination. And maybe I am only being a bit too creative right now, who knows?” he joked and took a sip of water.

“You think the Ra’Shakiin employed her?” Elem blurted out after staring at Garak in disbelief. Then he pursed his lips and looked down at the meal, halfway serving himself another bite, “You think she was purposely exiled to make her run errands?” he asked, lowering the fork again, then he considered what Garak had implied about himself – but that was something different, and Elem didn’t want to outright delve into those things, because the less he knew, the better. “Then she would’ve definitively needed a doctor... or Lykes should’ve been a stubborn fool and followed her.” Garak chuckled gently.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to make such assumptions, but she’s the exiled one, not Lykes. If I were a shady figure working to protect my government’s interests and ready to use exilees to perform certain tasks, it would  _ not _ be to also involve citizens. Otherwise, I’d use citizens in the first place. So, I presume that if Lykes were to go, he would need to be exiled too, either before or after. Considering he wasn’t exiled yet, maybe Wayan thought it might be best for him to keep his citizenship safe, in the best interest of the both of them if her government were to maintain her sentence in the end. And that would be why she tasked the doctor to follow you and protect you in her stead,” he concluded. Elem made a grimace at those last words, not that he could refute them; they were reasonable concepts.

“She should’ve asked him to go home. I’m not going to need him once I get to Cardassia, and certainly not on the trip there. I’ve got Glain – you said it yourself, it’s Glain I need. Not you, nor him.”

“I do hope you won’t need him, but maybe Lykes still wanted to carry out his own business on Cardassia. Meet people, make friends, who knows… Though he did seem concerned to return sooner than planned,” the tailor nodded. “But now that that matter is settled, you said you wanted to meet Doctor Moset?” Amusement dripped into Elem’s eyes like sinful laughter.

“You’re curious,” he teased with fondness, “it’s very endearing,” he felt the need to add, then remembered that Garak likely didn’t want him to flirt with him, so he cut it out a bit, “I need to know if my mother’s business with him involved me. That’s all there is to it,” he finished with ease, forking some more food into his mouth.

“Oh, that’s a passionating quest for knowledge,” the tailor brightened with enthusiasm. “But I hope for both yours and his sakes that you’re wrong.” Elem sighed a little as he sipped from the glass with one hand, and forked up some food with the other.

“I just need to know if it was him-” he mumbled as he looked at the meat he’d just skewered, “-who altered me as a baby. It’s not an accusation,” he defended himself before Garak could comment on the direness of this ‘accusation’, “I just know that I won’t be getting the truth from her – and she seemed  _ terrified _ at the prospect of me contacting Moset. So she’s hiding  _ something. _ I intend to find out what. If it’s about me, I deserve to know. And if it is  _ that _ , I guess he deserves a chance to right what he did wrong.”

“A good line of thought,” Garak agreed. “And a most understandable goal. I hope he’s not the one who did it, as it would be quite concerning, but if he isn’t… he could be a lead to the one who did.” He took another sip from his glass. “I sincerely hope all will go well for you in Cardassia. I know it’ll probably be hard at times, but I am certain you have what it takes to pull through. After all, you’ve already gone through more than most have, and you are far from naive…” He paused a second and looked at him. “In fact… I believe I quoted you just yesterday, while performing a little, ah… technological inspection. May I ask you if Trillian engineering favors the usage of hardware over software programmation? The…  _ deceitful little bitch _ kind of trick…”

“A short answer would be  _ yes _ ,” Elem chuckled at the words in Garak’s mouth. “There are also  _ friendly fallacies _ and  _ snitches _ – of course, these are not exactly legal to use unless you’re in a life-and-death situation. If you want to find out if one has been used, you’ll want to look for lerigian radiation; that or heptarecepite residue, but that’s more rare, because heptarecepite takes a lot of effort to make, even though it’s more difficult to pick up with a tricorder and as such more suitable if you’re into... spying,” he smirked and emptied his glass. “It’s not so strange that Trill engineering favours hardware, they  _ do _ shove other life forms into themselves, like inserting a memory chip… makes sense that they prefer this physical connection – as opposed to Betazoid tech, which has more in common with telepathy – did you know they use telepathy instead of com systems in their fleet? It’s why I couldn’t join.. and even then, they mostly keep to themselves. Nonviolence, and all that.”

“How endearing,” Garak grinned. “I know of lerigian radiations, and I indeed detected some, which confirmed my assumptions that a device had been placed and removed. Heptarecepite residue however is something I am unfamiliar with… How wide is the range to detect it, and how long does it last?” he inquired. “Lerigian radiations only last for twelve hours, which is far more than when the data loss was observed. Or rather… I had to come to the logical conclusion that if  _ I _ couldn’t find any trace of this data, it means it never existed in our systems in the first place. I suspect a device must have been planted in the infirmary to leech onto data storage, and I intend to verify this theory. If I could know where to look exactly, however, that would be a time saver. As thus, I might need to be able to scan for those residues…”

“Why, Mister Garak,” Elem feigned shock, “are you implying that  _ I _ would know how to do such a thing?” then he grinned and shrugged, “Heptarecepite is a type of plastic. Like all other plastics, it leaves microscopic dust behind, albeit less than normal plastics, and, ah, it’s biodegradable. Depending on environmental circumstances, the dust could be there either indefinitely, or merely hours – it depends largely on the type of bacteria around, temperature, air moisture...” he waved his hand a little, then sat the glass on the table, “What you’re looking for is a  _ picky daisy  _ or a  _ shady fisherman, _ depending on whether there’s a pre-existing configuration designed to detect patterns in the passing data and capture said data, or if it’s manually controlled with an actual fisher present, sorting the bad fish from the good,” he licked his lips, “they both build on the same technique, but the fisherman requires a two-way comlink to its master, or a physical cable connecting it to its master – the latter, despite its primitive nature, is a lot more discrete, as it doesn’t leave any traceable signals behind. Now,” he licked his lips again and took a fork of food and waved it a little, “you’ll want to look at the first node where all recording possibilities from the infirmary connects – digital, audio and video. There, in the intersect of those nodes, is the optimal position for such a filter, as it means you’ll be able to sort through all data with one single device, rather than several scattered ones – less is more,” he engulfed his food. Eating while listening, Garak could feel a certain tingle of excitation at the lecture.

“Trills do have a certain poetry to design their hacking devices,” he commented with amusement, “Or is it just you?”

“Uh,” Elem blushed and swallowed his mouthful quickly, “it’s slang, workplace slang,” he cleared his throat a little, “some people consider it profanity, but it’s... it does have a function in that it puts everyone on the same level. It relaxes people,” he cleared his throat, “it’s how you can tell the difference between Joined Trills, Trills who went to Starfleet Academy, and the rest of us. Not that I’m a Trill, or in Starfleet.”

“Bonding,” Garak agreed. “You’ll find this in Cardassia too,” he smiled, “though I suppose our terms tend to be a lot more technical, reusing existing jargon to create allegories and deviations, often with a dose of humor. Your  _ shady fisherman _ would be close to an  _ isolinear vole _ or a clearance code  _ Red Square Two Two _ –  _ Hednuda Noi Zi Zi, _ ” he echoed mentally, “which, pronounced with a southern Morfari Kardasi accent –  _ hesnuthae núi zú zú _ – sounds like ‘rotten egg hunter’ –  _ hesnuthay enyú zúzú _ – which is ah… an insult that was used a lot during the Occupation to refer to Bajoran collaborators infiltrated in the Underground,” he looked down his plate a moment. “There is a lot of history to this term, none of it nice,” he gathered his food in a more organized manner. “Still, clearance code slangs, aside from being venomously offensive – and believe me, they spare no one – tend to be quite amusing.” Elem snorted.

“So if you ever find yourself in front of a computer asking for clearance codes, just swear at it until it unlocks?” he grinned and then burst into a short laughter in which Garak joined in, “Sounds like engineering, alright – kick it and shout at it, and eventually it does what it’s supposed to do. Old, cranky tech really only understands one kind of language. Off-topic, I have to say, this is a delicious meal.”

“I am glad you enjoy it. It’s one the best programs I have, I believe. I don’t have it often however… because it’s so much tastier when you have a good company to enjoy it all the more. There’s no seasoning like joy and happiness.”

“You should invite your doctor for dinner,” Elem observed rather smugly, “I bet he’d appreciate the gesture. He does seem to consider you a close friend, as do I,” he winked and then shook his head with a laughter.

“Oh, but Doctor Bashir isn’t just my doctor,” Garak crooked a smile, “he’s the doctor of most everybody on the station! ...Especially dabo girls and most of the female half of security staff and… other women of passage,” he sighed and shook his head a bit. “Though, I must admit I do grow fascinated myself with this paradigm of contradiction between respectful ethics and brilliance of the mind in sickbay, and primitively blunt courting approaches around women, as if they suddenly ceased to have a brain, personality and sensitivity of their own once his lust has been triggered. This paradox sends me wondering whether it is an act he pulls or whether he truly is, somehow, a plain, simple jerk. Someone should make a study,” he concluded as he resumed to eating. Elem served himself some more water, smirking in amusement.

“I merely meant that he’s _ your  _ doctor in the sense that he isn’t _ mine _ , but I guess your subconscious utilized some creative liberty, hm?” he lifted the glass in a silent cheers, “On Trill, it is called the  _ Honesty of Trevex _ , after the Trevex symbiont, who often got themselves in trouble over the habit of mistakenly seeing, saying or concluding things based on subconscious desires. Ah, and believe me, Mister Garak, studies  _ were _ made on this phenomenon, and it has been proven it extends to other species as well. To our subconscious desires,” he stated with solemn seriosity, before emptying his glass in a single gulp.

“To our subconscious desires,” the tailor echoed and drank. “I’ll need to read some of those studies. Or maybe make one of my own,” he said – whether he was joking or serious, or both, was impossible to tell. “If you don’t mind me coming back to your shady fisher, I do have one more question. Where are the fish?” he asked. “Can the data be retrieved in any way?”

“The fish is probably fried and eaten by now,” Elem said and patted Elim’s shoulder emotionally.

“I feared so,” Garak tried not to show frustration.

“You have my deepest consolations; I believe you were very fond of that fish,” Elem went on with the apologetic tone. “Unless you find the person who ate it and cut them open to get it out, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle with an empty pond – ah, because, the reference doesn’t actually have anything to do with fish. It’s an allegory to symbiont thieves.”

“It’s ironic how they use this shady fisher to fish symbiont thieves,” Garak joked instead. “Yet it’s always both thrilling and upsetting to run into those lines and nets… but maybe something good will come out of this in the end,” he dared to hope a little. Just a little. He did have to wonder what would happen if his exile were to be lifted now. Would Tain really appreciate the finding or discard it as irrelevant? Maybe the discovery of this alien secret intelligence wasn’t a valuable enough feat yet to grant to his son a return home… Or maybe it would serve as a fine excuse to allow the family to be reunited. And what about Julian? Oh, the doctor would understand, but somehow, he’d made the station a more tender place for the tailor, and Garak felt like he could indulge some more into this warmth. However wrong it was.

“Would you like to help me fish for that fisher of fishers?” he asked, “Hopefully, there won’t be anyone fishing for us if we do this while the Constable rests in his own bucket.” Elem considered the repeat invite – it seemed Garak  _ really _ wanted him aboard this train, seeing as he kept on going back to the topic.

“What is it you expect to get out of it?” he asked softly, turning a quizzical glance to him, “What would  _ Cardassia _ gain from any knowledge on the… the Ra’Shakiin? I hardly think it’s relevant to your interests, and… I have to admit, I feel a certain obligation to protect Maniel’s legacy, even if there isn’t much of it left. He died for them just as much as he died for me, after all.”

“A sentiment I understand,” Garak nodded, “but Cardassia would view it otherwise. There’s no point in shielding your systems if a vole can eat its way through in and get away with it, and you can never be safe from voles without studying them first,” the tailor simply answered. “However, I would understand if you’d rather not get near to the infirmary.”

“Under any other circumstances, I’d be enthused at the prospect of working with you, but...” Elem made a sorry smile, and Garak nodded understandingly, “But I’ll note down the specifications of what you’re looking for in a PADD, and hand it to you before I leave. That might just be helpful enough.”

“And I believe you’ve been around the infirmary and the security office more than enough,” the tailor agreed and finished his last piece of bird meat. “But I do hope we’ll get another occasion to work together someday. It was very pleasant.”

“So do I… I trust you’ll know how to find me, if you find yourself needing expertise on Trillian matters; I’m only a subspace call away,” he jested and made a movement towards his ear, then leaned and gave Garak’s cheek a chaste kiss, “Thank you for inviting me. It’s really helped take my mind off of things, I feel better now.”

“And I am glad I could hold my promise to entertain you,” the tailor looked at him with soft cunning in his eyes. The dinner was reaching an end and he observed his dear guest in silence for a moment, his ridges, his delicate scales, and nuzzled his nose softly. “I have to believe you’ll find a good husband. One who loves you, treats you well, cares for you and brings but honor to you and your family. May you have a happy life and children who’ll bring you pride and joy,” he wished him. Elem smiled and leaned his forehead against Garak’s. The words felt bittersweet in the wake of his feelings for him, but he knew that the distance between them would make it easier, given time.

“And I wish you the same,” he told him confidently and took his hands in his own, “I know that one day, you’ll come home. You’re a survivor, you said it yourself.” He stole one last kiss before he got up, allowing Garak to guide him to the door, where they stopped for a moment.

Well there, Elim told him to wait, then popped off for a moment, returning with another canvas bag; “For the children,” he clarified as he handed it over. When Elem asked him about the cost, all he had to say was that he’d billed Nall for it. The engineer didn’t ask whether his father  _ knew _ about this, but figured he’d know, eventually. Then they parted ways, and Elem headed back to his quarters, which were dark and still at his arrival. It gave him enough time to get ready for bed at his own pace, take his medication and watch himself in the mirror, trying not to think too much about how this had been his and Garak’s last precious moment together, a union which would never occur ever again.


	38. Day 30 - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Space is the place

#  Day 30

 

In the early morning hours, departure neared its time. The Cardassians had gathered to embark and Timun followed them at a distance, silent and discreet. His bags weighed on his shoulders, especially the one with his medical tools and Garak’s… parting gifts. Although they weren’t for Timun to keep; concealed in a box, he was supposed to deliver them upon arrival.

The Vulcan-Trill boarded and, once inside his quarters, he tried to relax a little while waiting for departure. He was a bit reassured to sit inside the ship, but this step into the unknown soaked him in a floating feeling, as he somehow hovered through space already, yet not quite. So, to get back in touch with gravity and serenity, he took earphones from his bag, connected them to his PADD and eased in the music. A voice sang conceptual lyrics over a trippy electronic tune with a retro vibe that brought Timun back to his teenage years, driving hovercrafts off cliffs for the thrill of it. Back then, he didn’t care about dying. Now? He only hoped to make it to Cardassia and back again so he could be reunited with Savras, and with his family too – he practically didn’t have the time to say goodbye to Nysar and Dzi because of  _ Garak _ . It was one of the things that had made it hard to talk to Julian as they shared a last racquetball match on the previous day morning. Julian could clearly see just how stressed his opponent was, but Timun couldn’t risk telling him anything. Doctor Bashir was way too kind to be dragged into those Ra’Shakiin and Obsidian Order stories. That burden was for Timun to keep, and this time, he’d been the one to lose the match, utterly and completely. He’d smiled at his adversary, still. He hadn’t minded losing to him, and surely, that wasn’t any sort of prognostic for his future in Cardassia.

The tailor  _ had _ informed him that while Elem  _ really wished _ he could get him to die, he didn’t intend to try to get him killed or tried in justice. All Timun had to do was to keep to himself until they would arrive, and everything would be over. They’d never have to meet each other ever again, and it was  _ for the best _ .

Eventually, the ship left the station, moving smoothly enough that the passengers wouldn’t have noticed the movement if it weren’t for the announcement that the freighter had taken to space.

 

About half an hour after departure however, strange sounds got the Vulcan out of his meditative trance – something alike to muffled banging against a panel. Looking around, he found himself staring as the air conduit’s panel tipped over and someone crawled out of it. The young man frowned in confusion before his eyes widened in horror as the Dopterian turned his face to him.

“Oh, hello,” the alien greeted him. “Quite fascinating, this ship, isn’t it?”

“I recognize you! You’re the one who tried to smuggle Romulan Ale in our quarters!” Timun pointed a finger at him. “Get out of here at once!”

“You are most certainly mistaken…” the man got up and still tried to get closer to the door while dusting off his rather elegant clothes.

“Get  _ out _ of here, Emcqay! This is my room, I paid for it, you’re not invited and I’ll break each and every bone of your body if you don’t leave right away!” the Vulcan-Trill glared at him angrily.

“Oh, surely you wouldn’t want to do such a thing while on way to Cardassia, darling,” Emcqay laughed. “But I remember you now! Mister Lykes! What a surprise! What a coincidence that fate has us reunited again!” he came over to sit on the bed opposite to Timun’s. “So you found some bottles of Romulan Ale in our quarters? How fortunate for you… tell me, what happened to them? This sounds like an amazing story.” The doctor was not amused.

“If you want them, you’ll have to speak with Constable Odo. I understand he would have enjoyed a little talk with you. A lot more than I do. Now please, leave,” he got up, grabbed the little weaselly man and threw him out without much effort. He locked the door and retreated to the bed with a sigh. Emcqay was right about one thing: they were indeed on way to Cardassia. So Timun took his PADD and the earpiece from his bag, and temporarily deactivated his universal translator to repass his lessons of Kardasi.

 

Hours passed, allowing to ease him and relax, pass by the cafeteria to eat something too. He’d just returned to his quarters when the entire room moved in a way that could be felt. He straightened up, alert.  _ A plasma storm? _ he wondered and cautiously went to peer through the window. But everything seemed calm outside. All he could see was black with distant strokes of white. Nothing out of the ordinary. He was about to get back to his bed when the ship moved again, stronger this time, and enough to cause the young man to almost lose his balance.

“What the f-” he landed flat against the window, staring outside. And now he could see it, the shimmer. They’d raised shields. “Elem,” he muttered to himself. He hurried to take his medikit and quickly shoved his bag in a cupboard before running out of his quarters to find the others on the level above. Other people on the ship seemed mildly concerned as to what could be going on, not yet realizing there was an attack. And on the bridge, the situation wasn’t too dissimilar.

“Captain Kerach, we’ve been hit by phasers from the small ship,” one of the crew members had read when they were first hit.

“Why would anyone attack us?” Kerach had wondered. “Are you sure they-” he was interrupted as the second blast shook the ship with more power. “What are they doing!? Raise shields!”

“It seems to be a Maquis raider, Captain.”

“Hail them,” the captain shook his head in disbelief. The nerve of those people, really! “On screen,” he added when the hails were finally answered and a seemingly rather young Human of some description appeared on the display – male, female, or whatever it was; the Lisspian never was good at telling those apart. “Can you please stop what you’re doing!?” Kerach annoyedly scolded the person.

“Absolutely. Just get your shields down, surrender your ship and there will be no casualties,” the Human grinned.

“That is out of question, this is my ship, and I’m not surrendering it nor its cargo to anyone, especially not someone with such rude manners as you.”

“Fine,” the Maquis ended the transmission. There was another attack, immediately.

“Engage phasers!” Kerach yelled.

 

Meanwhile, Glain had left the quarters to get to the bathroom and was tentatively combing his hair.

“Those aliens can’t sort crates and can’t drive straight either!” he grunted at the mess the movements induced. Insisting into correcting his hairdo, he almost stabbed himself with the comb when a stronger secousse had him nearly tip over. “Now it’s not possible to drive this poorly!” he got angry but didn’t give up his grooming yet. It took the ship to go into red alert mode for him to consider that maybe there was some kind of perturbations after all, and if this was the case, maybe he should return to the quarters to help reassure the children, and so he hurried out. There, Elem was sat on one of the bottom bunks with them, trying to be comforting. Terek especially had tensed considerably.

“I am not so sure they want to destroy the ship, this  _ is _ a freighter, right?” Elem looked at Glain when the young man appeared, “So it stands to reason that they are pirates, which means they want to  _ claim _ the goods, not blow them up.” His shoulders dropped a little, “We should just sit tight and let them do whatever they want.” Hair disordered again, the archivist got closer to his brother to whisper to his ear.

“Is it normal that there are things making sparks in the corridors?” he had to ask.

“It’s consistent with an attack,” Elem answered rather casually, then hit his head on the top bunk as another phaser shot shook the ship. Rubbing his head and wincing, he managed a “ _ That’s also consistent _ ,” with a forced smile attached to it. “I think we’ll have more cause for concern once the shaking and exploding stops, because that likely means we’re being boarded. Do you know if there are any notorious raiders in this area? Wherever we are.”

“I have no idea  _ where _ exactly we are, but I’ve heard of a group of terrorists called the Maquis,” Glain said dryly. “They’re from the colonies in the demilitarized zone ...which isn’t so demilitarized anymore. They are Federation aliens who chose to stay on the planets when those were handed over to us, but they rebel against our rule. It’s well-known that it’s all a Federation plot to have us Cardassians pass for the wrongdoers – Gul Evek is very vocal about it,” he explained begrudgingly.

The kids came closer to huddle against their elders, Terek holding Kilem’s hand in her own and trying to stay calm. She was pale however, and Glain couldn’t help but worry for her.

“I wish we’d taken your rifle along after all…” he muttered to his brother.

“But I still have these,” Elem fished up a hypospray and armed it with a dose of phelenaxinide, “there’s a fine line between medicine and weaponry, and this is both,” he handed it to Glain. “That tube should be good for two injections, if you get close enough to an offender,” he said, then looked at Kilem and Terek, then at the air conduit panel next to the bed, “I have an idea for the two of you. Ever played hide and seek?”

##  * * *

“Did they stop?” Kerach asked in a pale voice.

“Afraid not, they’re targeting our weapons. Phaser units one, three, four and six are down, captain.”

“Are they the ones with actual weapons or the lures?”

“Lures mostly, but I think the enemy might have figured the trick. Their shots are getting more accurate,” the bridge engineer gritted her teeth. “They must have gone into manual to-” she interrupted herself to announce, “We have no more weapons, captain. I suggest we reroute life supply energy to the shields. If we can hold on long enough, a Cardassian ship might pick our distress signal and rescue us.”

“Do this,” the captain agreed. “What about the warp core? Can we get some more speed for a while?”

“Certainly not to outrun them. I would not recommend an overdrive during an attack, captain.”

“Do it. Do it while we still have shields,” Kerach ordered. “We’ll worry about overdrive when they’re down. I want to reach the Cardassian border as fast as we can.”

“But we’re still hours away from there!”

“Are you disputing my orders, Jana!?” he glared at her. She held her breath and turned back to her screens.

“Your orders, Captain.”

The increase of warp speed gave them but a very short respite, and when the raider caught up, the real show started, blooming fireworks in many places of the ship. Inside, darkness fell over the crew and passengers as the light system seemed to malfunction, and the hull of the ship creaked, a metallic song of mourning. Distant explosions and sparks could still be heard, but the air was different. Shields were down.

 

“They’ve boarded us,” Elem reckoned, “we should leave the room, so they won’t know where to look for the children.”

He cautiously brought Glain with him out of the room, and they made their way through the corridors, aimlessly searching for a good spot to hide, warily looking around corners before walking across intersections in the flickering from the half-broken light system, and through the mist of steam leaking from broken pipes – what kind of gas they contained, Elem didn’t know, but it had a nasty, salty scent.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered, breathing through his sleeve in hope to filter most of the gas. Not that it was very efficient. A bit later, he couldn’t help but cough a bit and frowned when the sound was echoed with a bit of delay by another voice. There was someone ahead.

 

In the meantime, their seemingly deserted quarters were being paid a visit. Timun was headed there when he heard some movement further away in the dark. He froze and silenced, listening to try to figure whether the person might be neutral or enemy. They were getting closer, but then let out a grunt of pain as they hit onto something. Recognizing the voice, the Vulcan-Trill rolled his eyes and hoped Emcqay would pass him  and leave it at that, but chance had it the other way around. The lights started to flicker until they turned on fully again, and the two men found each other face to face.

“And so we meet again, Mister Lykes,” the alien grinned.

“Get out of my way,” Timun shoved him to the side.

“If you want to meet with those Maquis, who am I to stop you?”

“Maquis?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who they are…” Timun shook his head.

“Now I really have to go,” he hurried, then stopped again as he heard the other following him. “I thought you were going the other way around?”

“It’s the Cardassians, isn’t it? You  _ do _ know them… Ah, yes, you do…” the Dopterian grinned. “Come, let’s go save your friends.”

“And why would  _ you _ take such a risk? No, I’m going alone,” Timun simply opted to run away from him, quite certain he’d easily outrun him.

“You’re making a grave mistake!” the other shouted from where he was left behind. The Vulcan didn’t care to think about it. Yet, when he reached the Cardassians’ quarters, they were empty, save for their belongings.

“Anybody here? Elem? Glain?” he called, searching under the beds. He gave a look to the air conduit panel and got closer. “Elem? Glain?” No answer, but he could hear faint breathing inside. He reached for the panel and was about to take it off when he heard more noise in the corridor and got away from the plate in reflex. He approached the entrance carefully, staying to the side of the door. He could hear footsteps, and soon someone came in. Timun felt the weapon against his chest before he had the time to identify a face. Human, female, stark brown eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Doctor Lykes, Trill civilian,” Timun gulped. She squinted at him.

“You’re a Vulcan.”

“Half-Vulcan, half-Trill. See the spots on my forehead and neck?” he tried to move his head a bit.

“Don’t move!” she pressed her phaser harder against his ribcage. “What are you doing on this ship?”

“I’m headed to Cardassia, to provide care for aliens living there,” he answered with a dry voice, feeling sweat pearling on his back. She made a disgusted face.

“You mean collaborators. Anyone on Cardassia is our enemy. Luckily for you, I’m not the one to decide if you get to live or die, come,” she threatened him.

Left without much of a choice, he walked out, hands behind his head so she could see them and she followed, giving him directions. They were headed toward the cargo bays when the sound of turbolift doors opening behind them had her turn over to face the person.

“You, there! Hold on!” she yelled at the Dopterian. And it’d been all she got to say as Timun pinched the nerves of her neck and held her as she collapsed, to lay her down against the wall.

“Good job,” the alien came closer quickly and picked her rifle. “I suppose I owe you this one then. Let’s not stay here.”

“Thanks for the diversion,” Timun got up, quite agreeing. He jumped away in surprise and horror when the alien fired, vaporizing the woman’s body. The Vulcan looked at him in shock, no longer knowing if the woman had really existed or not.

“You don’t want your enemy to find their own, unconscious in the corridors, and she was a terrorist, wasn’t she?” Emcqay laughed.

“She was a person!” Timun shot back with a strangled voice.

“Fuck do I care,” the other shrugged. “Now,” he raised the weapon, aiming it at the Vulcan, “do you argue with that, Doctor?” Timun gulped submissively. “Good, because it’s pay-back time and you’re not done yet refunding me those bottles. I need manpower so you come with me. These assholes are going to pillage the cargo bays and we can’t let this happen, can we?”

“I suppose not,” Timun got back on their way. “And how do you hope to proceed with that?”

“We’re going to engineering.”

 

It took a while to reach the very end of the ship. Timun walked first and encountered another Maquis who wasn’t as friendly as the previous one and opened fire on sight. The Vulcan dodged in a life-saving reflex, and was thankful this time that the Dopterian had a better aim. This time, the man laid dead on the floor, but it still felt quite eerie.

“Take him, we can’t let him in the way,” the alien commanded, and Timun just had to obey. He was about to take the rifle when he felt the nozzle of Emcqay’s weapon against his neck. “I carry the weapons, you carry the dead.”

He had him dump the Terran sod in a container later on the way and Timun decided not to feel anything about it. Once in engineering he stood as sentry while the other started trafficking things inside the panels.

“So, your name is Emcqay, right?” Timun tried to converse.

The Dopterian just groaned. “I’m busy.”

“Just as fine a name, I guess,” Timun muttered.

A quarter-hour later Emcqay finally let out a sigh. “Good. With those disruptions, their shitty transporters won’t work so easily now,” he snickered to himself. “Let them try to beam anything or anyone and they’ll change their minds about trying their luck again. Ever seen the results of a transporter accident, Doctor?” he grinned at Timun.

“Once.” The Vulcan-Trill could have done without such memories – two of the interns had quitted the studies after this.

“Nasty, eh. Now let’s get my cargo secured. It’s going to be freezing cold in those bays. We’re bringing it here and we defend our position,” he got up, a rifle on his back, the other in his hands. They retreated to the cargo bays and Timun couldn’t help but notice that, indeed, the air was getting colder. Emcqay started swearing when he felt the crate he wanted the Vulcan to move. “It’s cold!” he hissed. “Move on already!”

“It’s  _ large _ and  _ heavy _ ,” Timun groaned as he pulled it over the trolley, “and it feels like what’s inside is moving!”

“Does it, now? Good, very good,” the other sighed in relief.

“Oh, Guardians…” the doctor shook his head as he finally got the crate on the transport tool. “It’s alive inside. Are they animals? People…?”

“Just shut up and let’s get back to where it’s warm before they die, you idiot.” And so they did. They waited then. “It’s going to take them a longer while to pillage everything. Maybe your friends will escape…” the Dopterian suggested, grinning.

“I have to go, I need to find them,” Timun got up.

“Tss, tss,” the other interrupted, pointing his rifle at him. “You’re staying here, sweetheart. I’m not letting you tell them what jamming I did. We stay here until they leave and everything goes back to normal. Hopefully, they won’t have killed the entire crew.” Timun sighed and sat back, holding his medikit. He was a good martial artist, yes, but he wasn’t a foolhardy hero, and the images of death he’d seen were haunting.

##  * * *

Lezra, Gwen and Koltras – a tall, sturdy Bajoran,  a short and equally as sturdy Human, and a shaggy half-Klingon – were searching the crew quarters to round up some passengers. Gwen was leading the group as usual, rifle in her hand; there were two figures ahead, and she motioned for the others to raise their weapons.

“Surrender yourselves, or I’ll order my men to shoot,” she threatened in a sharp, dark voice. Elem stopped at once, then looked at Glain. “Hold your hands where I can see them.” As the two Cardassians stepped through the mist, Gwen could hear Koltras choke on a breath, and moved to lay a hand on his weapon. “Look what we’ve got here,” she smirked, amused, “two Cardies! Who would’ve guessed? Were they in the crew manifest?” Koltras shook his head, “Then they must be passengers. I hope you’ve enjoyed your ride so far, because it’s gonna go downhill from here on for you.”

“The captain will decide,” Lezra muttered.

“And so he will, but until then, let’s get them to a nice, confined space, shall we? Keep your hands up, and keep walking,” she guided them through the corridors, and down the stairs – there, she forced them to get into a rather scarce, small cargo-hold that reeked of rotten vegetables.

“Sit,” Lezra ordered while Koltras and Gwen talked together. Hesitantly, the prisoners obeyed. “Good spoonheads,” Lezra commented and waved her weapon at them some more, “What should we do with you, any suggestions? Because I can think of a few myself. I always wanted to see the insides of a scaleskin. Don’t you?” Glain cleared his voice, setting his hand on Elem’s lap to defend him but also draw strength from him.

“I wouldn’t recommend that, really,” he started with a shrill, high-pitched voice. Elem winced as the woman hit Glain across the face with the butt of her rifle, then pointed it at him again – blood had started seeping from his lower lip.

“Next time, I won’t be so kind, you lying cunt,” it seemed to be true, too, and Elem frantically sought for things to say in his own head but was interrupted by the half-Klingon, who tore his bag from him.

“What is this?”

“My med- medicine,” he looked briefly at Lezra, before addressing the unpleasant, snarling Klingon again, “I need it to live,” he explained weakly.

“Ha! You filthy p’tak, you need a lot more than this to live,” the toothy, ugly grin grew on the Maquis’s face as he dove into the bag to look through its contents – he could only find a hypospray in it, however, lifting it out and then throwing it at the Cardassian. He then tore the bag into two shreds before throwing it at the floor in front of him, meaningfully.

“Captain wonders what their names are,” Gwen told from the doorway.

“You heard her, speak up,” Lezra aimed the handle of her rifle at Glain’s face again, so to make him speak a bit more honesty this time – the Cardassian started to shake instead although he managed to utter “ _ Glain Rokat _ ” in a weak trembling voice.

“Melekor Kel,” Elem answered in a hoarse voice, a bit concerned he’d get beaten, too. Gwen passed the information to the Captain, then nodded to Lezra.

“Get them to talk of their families, the influence or wealth they have,  _ anything _ they might give us in return,” was her only instruction.

“You take him,” Lezra pointed at Koltras, then at Elem, who instantly tried to crawl away. The half-Cardassian was caught by the hair and forced to get up, as the half-Klingon wanted some privacy for their talk, on the other side of a pile of crates. There, he threw Elem to the floor, and stepped on his throat.

“If you don’t speak, you never will,” he promised with a rough grin. Elem panicked.

“ _ I don’t have a family _ ,” he wheezed, and then hissed as the pressure intensified, “ _ I’m not from Cardassia, let me g- _ ” the air to his lungs was completely shut off, and it didn’t seem like the barbare was going to step off any time soon.

On the other side, wide-eyed in panic and horror, Glain kept on glancing at the crates, as if he might be able to see through them.

“Right then, spoonhead,” mused Lezra as she paced back and forth in front of him, “tell me about your family, who are they? What’s their influence in Cardassian society? Do they have... resources? Hehe, please tell me they don’t. I would _ so  _ enjoy watching you spill your guts all over the floor.” From behind the crates, Elem’s voice returned in a gasp, followed by two smacking sounds and a yelp. Glain shivered.

“My father is Nall Rokat, he’s famous Conservator and influential,” he spoke fast, still trembling, “High enough our status is that Gul Dukat  _ personally  _ intervened for me during on DS9 my stay as to ensure I was treated well. I beg you please, don’t kill us! My friend isn’t a Cardassian citizen, he’s half-Betazoid and- and never walked on Cardassia. His mother is Ywanna Kel, famous writer in the Federation! And- and I need to get back home! My mother is dying…!” he cried miserably and covering his face defensively in case he’d get beaten up. “I’m twenty-two only, I’m just an archivist and my father’s  _ only _ child…!”

“How unfortunate for him,” Lezra didn’t seem sorry at all though, and instead pointed the nozzle of her weapon at him, “undress,” she ordered rather coldly, followed up with, “If  _ you _ are an archivist, then what is he?” she nodded sidewise to the crates, but Glain was looking down and didn’t see the movement.

“I told you he’s a Conservator,” he answered, starting to relax just enough to just obey and speak a bit better, folding his clothes neatly as usual. “He’s a lawyer, if you prefer. It’s a highly important position in Cardassia, very mediatic, because trials are all public. He’s extremely compassionate and talented in bringing out the emotions of convicts; people love him,” he couldn’t help but beam with a bit of pride. That expression didn’t stay there for long as Lezra struck him across the face. Once, then twice, the second time hard enough that he might just lose his balance.

Meanwhile Elem found himself pressed against a wall, face first, arm locked behind his back while the half-Klingon pushed his head against the cold metal and pressed him about his family.

“I have none,” Elem was starting to get angry rather than afraid, “I’m a half-Cardassian, half-Betazoid  _ bastard _ , my mother was  _ raped _ and she raised me like the monster she always thought my father was-”

“Why are you going to Cardassia?” continued Koltras, “What’s your relation with the other?”

“He- he’s my master,” Elem made up. However, he did feel that the Klingon hybrid might have softened up to him a bit, the grip wasn’t as hard as before, “Please... I’m only a servant to the Rokat family, I- I’m nothing, don’t kill me...” The Klingon let out a frustrated growl and tossed him to the ground, then kicked him into the wall before dragging him back to the others.

“He claims he’s a servant to the Rokat family,” he grunted to Lezra as he reappeared, then made a disgusted face, “Did you have to have him undressed? No one needed to see that.” She didn’t care to answer to that.

“So what is he?” she spat at Glain, enraged at his former ‘attempt to derail the topic,’ then she gesticulated to Koltras, who tossed Elem on the floor, “ _ him _ ,” she finished her clarification, directing her rifle at the half-breed, “Answer, or I’ll evaporate him.”

“Don’t! He’s my housekeeper!” Glain squealed at once, holding his painful jaw. He had a taste of blood all through the mouth. “I hired him on DS9, I needed someone to carry the bags of mine and talk to people as my stead,” he explained in a shrill voice and breaking grammar. “He’s servant of mine if you prefer,” he gulped, looking intensely at Elem in case it might be the last time he’d ever see him. He tried to brace himself some more, for his sibling’s sake, “He’s really a Betazed citizen, he’s innocent! It’s not his fault if he was born looking like this! He never was on Cardassia before, but I accepted to take him with me because his life in the Federation was nothing but discrimination, insults and beatings just because he looks like a Cardassian!” he spoke as fast as he could. “Look at his eyes! He’s  _ Betazoid! _ ” he stared back at Lezra, tears in his own green eyes. Lezra’s expression was something more amused, and she stared at Glain for a while before she lifted the rifle to set it against her hip, pointing at the ceiling instead.

“You’re really  _ fond _ of him, aren’t you?” she mused out loud, “You went all the way to DS9 to pick him up, didn’t you? He’s more than a housekeeper, I believe,” she licked her lower lip. “Alright, I won’t kill him,” she agreed, “as long as you comply, and do everything we tell you, is that understood,  _ Mister _ Rokat?”

“Captain says to get the video setup,” Gwen reported from the door.

“I’m on it,” Koltras gave Elem one last kick before leaving the room, while Lezra sat on her heels in front of Glain and stroke his cheek with the weapon, “You, my sweet, are going to beg for your life. Tell your father that if he personally doesn’t see that our requirements are met, his son and his whore housekeeper will both meet most agonizing ends,” she nodded a bit, “But my, my, you aren’t very convincing yet, are you?” she straightened up, and hit him across the face several more times, hard enough that blood swept through the air and dotted the floor – Glain thought he would have been more vocal in such a situation, but the blows cut his breath short, getting but muffled grunts of pain out him instead. The sight of his own blood made him dizzy and he trembled a bit as he tried to feel his face, to figure what had happened to it, and wipe the tar-like blood from it. Elem crawled to his side, but Lezra stopped him with a series of sounds, pointing at him.

“You’re needed  _ behind _ the scenes. After all, I can’t trust your friend here to keep on being honest if you’re not under my nail, hm? Now, we won’t want your father to contact Central Command, so you’ll specifically tell him not to,” she pursed her lips, “I could always kill your friend on cam to show how serious we are. That’d make him think twice – it’s so good you’re here!” she chimed to Elem, who let out a silent breath through his mouth.

“If you kill me, my mother will find you and kill you with her  _ mind _ . Betazoid murder is banned, but that doesn’t mean no one knows  _ how _ ,” he looked up at Lezra with dark eyes. She spat in his face, and he closed his eyes in silent disgust and aggravation. Clenching his jaw, the archivist just tried not to react too much to the violence and degradation.

“We’ll do everything you tell us to, there’s no need for anyone to die,” he assured.

 

Koltras arrived a moment later, with a handheld camera – an old, bulky thing which only barely kept alive. Still, they took the time to arrange the setting so the light hit Glain sufficiently in the eyes.

“There,” Koltras smirked, “doing this, I almost feel like a Cardassian myself,” he leaned in Lezra’s direction and winked, “Them and their cold, bright interrogation methods… now you get to reap what you sow.”

They were ridiculous, Glain thought. This was all so far from a true interrogation chamber. None of them was anything remotely close from Enkem in matter of charisma and determination, and nothing close from Ministerial Interrogators like Enar Dain, patient and disciplined. They were fickle play-pretenders, and somehow, he couldn’t help but feel superior to them. Gwen stepped up and held a PADD in front of her with the message she’d written – that device too, was old, and the display was a bit cracked, but the text still very possible to read. Lezra pointed her weapon at Elem.

“Read,” she ordered, “and if I’m not satisfied with the emotion you put in it, I’ll make you feel it all the more.” Glain didn’t even look at the PADD, simply looking at the camera as he recited the text he’d heard before as the woman typed it (far too proud with herself). He spoke in a clear, calm and composed formal tone, blinking with either the right or left eye when pronouncing certain phonemes – a code to mean time could be stalled for but no action was to be taken in the end.

“There isn’t enough emotion,” Lezra complained, then gave Elem’s shoulder a kick, pointed the phaser at him, and fired. The world went from greyscale to black for him – whether he was stunned or dead, couldn’t really be discerned, “ _ Now _ can we have some fear, hm?” she directed her weapon at Glain again. He’d gone pale, staring at Elem as if nothing was real, as if time had stopped for them both. His body started shaking like a dead leaf in the wind and he clung to himself, singing in a barely audible voice.

“Was that really necessary?” complained Gwen.

“This isn’t Starfleet, Gwendolyn, we kill hostages if we have to,” Lezra shot back, then nodded at Glain, “Next time it’ll be you; we don’t have nearly as much to win from keeping you alive as you might think, so you better get your act together, fuckboy.”

“ _ Three children go to the water, the water, _ ” he murmured in Kardasi, in a barely audible voice, clinging to himself, “ _ Three children go to the water in Kerdalen, _ ” breathing slowly, he raised his gaze to the camera again, “ _ One swims, one drowns, one cries, cries a river in Kerdalen, one lives, one dies, one lays, lays forever in Kerdalen… _ ” Almost panting in fear, wide-eyed and tears running down on their own accord, he glanced at Lezra then stared at the objective again, repeating the text in a completely atone voice, devoid of any emotion nor personality. He blinked through it again, but this time the message was only and solely “For Cardassia, we live and die, take no action.” At last he looked down Elem’s body again and heard someone singing,

_ “Three children go to the desert – the desert, _

_ Three children go to the desert in Varnikar, _

_ One itches, one builds, one digs, digs a canyon in Varnikar, _

_ One lives, one dies, one rests, rests forever in Varnik-” _

Only when he was hit did he realize the voice had come from him.

“Much better,” Lezra reckoned, snagging the camera from Koltras, then nodding to Gwen, “let’s take this to the captain – you stay and keep an eye on them,” she patted Koltras’s shoulder, and the half-Klingon grinned and nodded a bit, letting the women leave. Once they were out, he sat on his heels in front of the naked Cardassian.

“Put your clothes back on,” he told him and shuffled the pile of fabric to him. There was almost something akin to pity in his voice. Almost. “It’s about to get real cold here, anyway. Fucking Liseppians shut off the goddamn life support. You’re no good to us if you get an infection and die,” then he straightened up and went to the unconscious one, whom he roughly lifted and dumped atop a crate, looking him over and checking his pulse.

“Typical of her – he isn’t even dead,” he glanced at Glain, “Perhaps this’ll teach you a lesson – if you fuck up, it’s your friends who die. You betrayed him by disobeying your captors. We won’t be so lenient next time. Now,” he went to another crate, opened it and rummaged around, then threw a couple of blankets in the Cardies’ general direction, “get wrapped up, and get to covering up your friend. These cargo bays are poorly insulated, I estimate that they’ll get colder than Breen within the hour,” he pouted, “and I don’t think the Cap’ will be done talking to your father in a good while, so, ah, get cozy.”


	39. Day 30 - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now the conclusion~

It was two hours past midnight when an odd sound woke him. Disoriented at first, the elderly Cardassian simply turned and pulled his blankets over his head, ignoring the sound. It wasn’t until he’d nearly fallen back asleep, ignoring the beeping, that he realized it was a call.

“ _ Garak _ …” he muttered crankily as he got up and slipped into his fluffy morning gown, “don’t worry dear, I’ll be back in a while,” he kissed his wife’s forehead, then headed to the call room. There, he sat in the chair, massaged his temples, and then sneered at the signal as it nagged him again. Once turned on, the monitor  _ didn’t _ show Garak’s stupid shop, however. In fact, he wasn’t sure exactly who he was looking at, until the pathetic looking mess started talking, mumbling a nursery rhyme. It was a bad recording, but not bad enough that he didn’t recognize his own son. In an instant, he’d slammed the record button, capturing the sequence, and it only got worse from then on – the Maquis! Barring that, the signal Glain sent him wasn’t one any father would ever hear. The recording was followed by a long list of items – replicators, weapons, food – coordinates. And a deadline.

The transmission ended and threw him into darkness, the only light in the room being the rod flashing in its slot, where it had recorded the entire thing. Nall’s mouth was as dry as his eyes were wet. There was  _ no _ way he could manage all of this, and there was  _ no way _ he’d betray Cardassia and work with terrorists. He glanced at the plant standing on the counter next to him. The decryption key was still up to date, and neither the Maquis nor Central Command would be able to tell he’d talked to someone. So he initiated a call to the only person he thought might be able to deliver the message he could not: Elim Garak.

 

Up on DS9, the tailor was starting to feel slightly peckish as lunch time approached, and he almost expected Julian to pop in at any instant, unless he might have some medical emergency holding him into sickbay. In truth, Garak was even considering to be the one to fetch him, but just as he was about to walk away to do just that, a signal beeped in his back and had him turn over to the computer. Surely, it couldn’t be anything important. Yet, he cared to check what he was up to just so it wouldn’t be on his mind while eating. He frowned slightly as he recognized the call and resigned to answer, quickly encrypting the conversation on his end while requiring the computer to lock the shop’s door.

“Mister Rokat?” he was surprised to see the man in a gown and looking somewhat terrible. His first thought was that, somehow, his wife had died. “If you were hoping to talk to Glain or Elem, I’m afraid this’ll have to wait until their arrival. They departed quite some hours ago already…”

“I need you to... to forward this message to someone. Anyone relevant,” croaked Nall – he couldn’t  _ think _ straight, he wasn’t sure who he wanted to get the message to – heck, he wouldn’t even mind if the Obsidian Order helped out for once. He pressed a key to transmit the recorded message to Garak, prompting it to play again, for the both of them, which caused him to break down crying into the sleeves of his gown, crept into a fetal position, one he was still in once the recording stopped playing, “He’s going to die!” he whimpered uselessly, “And his mother! And  _ those terrorists _ , and what of my other – they are going to die, and  _ the children _ ...!” Garak held himself still but efficiently inserted a rod in the console and pressed a key to record the file.

“I’ll do what I can. They’re not dead yet, and it is your duty to believe in them. We’ll talk later, end transmission.” He grabbed the rod and strode out, leaving his closed shop behind him to head to the person he thought might have the personal interest  _ and _ the contacts to do anything: Ywanna Kel.

 

In her quarters of the Habitat ring, Ywanna had packed her things, leaving her room a barren sight. She’d managed to swindle a retarded Ferengi out of his fully functional shuttle, giving him her shitty freighter in exchange. ‘ _ A contract is a contract is a contract _ ’, that was their motto, and at the moment, she was being enough of a Ferengi herself that the little man surely wouldn’t dare to break it – either way, she was about to depart and head out to meet up with her Romulan contact near the Lierus belt. She hadn’t yet given up hope about Melekor, working under the logic that he’d grow tired of Cardassia once he realized their society wasn’t any more welcoming than that of the Federation. Then, he’d come crawling back to her. Time solved everything just fine.

“Mister Garak,” she chimed as she opened the doors, inviting him to her empty quarters, “how quaint to see you. Would you care for something to eat? I  _ believe _ it’s lunch time.”

“I probably could use a cup of soup,” he smiled politely as he entered, glancing around. “Are you leaving?” he deduced, “If that’s so, I suppose I shouldn’t lose any time to tell you that,” he held up the rod, “I have some news from your child’s father. It would appear that some Maquis raiders have taken an interest in the Lissepian freighter on which Melekor and Glain embarked. They were taken as hostages.”

“Hostages?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, “And that contains...?” she gesticulated to the rod, then just outright took it, in exchange for the cup she’d just replicated. Watching the message at the panel made her ill at ease, and she nodded a bit at the end of it.

“So this is Glain Rokat, Melekor’s... family,” she smiled a little and turned around, leaning her back against the wall, “This does seem like a strictly Cardassian matter. I’m afraid I don’t see what I could do about it; I’m not a Cardassian.”

“Neither is your son,” Garak licked his lips before lowering the cup. “I simply thought that you might want to know about his current situation, in case you felt like dealing with those terrorists in a more Betazoid or Federal way. You certainly know that if Central Command were to hear of this, they would detach a ship immediately to end the terrorists – one Cardassian citizen is a meager price for such a haul,” he reckoned. “If I were you, I would feel outraged to have been left out of the negotiations and I’d contact those persons to stall for time, but I’m not you and, of course, it is not my role to give you any sort of advice. I am but a simple tailor,” he smiled and sipped some more soup. Ywanna shrugged.

“My son has to deal with the path he chose for himself,” she told him pleasantly, “If he wishes to be a Cardassian, and to pledge loyalty to his father rather than his mother, then I cannot consider my ties to him consequential any longer. I am sure  _ any _ self-respecting Cardassian would’ve come to the same conclusion, were their child to betray them, don’t you agree?” she folded her hands in her back, watching her guest.

“But as you said, you’re not a Cardassian,” Garak pointed. “I thought Betazoids were very protective of their children, but maybe I ignored that it is only if the children are abiding to their parent’s will?” he hypothesized. “Again, I only brought you the information. At least, I suppose you won’t be too surprised nor shocked if you were to be later informed that your son has died,” he smiled. “Maybe it would even be a relief, I imagine.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed and tapered her fingertips together, “though, tell me, Mister Garak, surely  _ you _ know ways around the Central Command? Surely, if you really wanted to help divert a catastrophe, you’d utilize your resources? Since you came here, to me, I must draw the conclusion that you are personally invested in this whole ordeal, enough so to beg an  _ outsider _ for help. You don’t need me, and I don’t need you. Those two boys, though, they might need you, not to mention the children… you are getting to that age when you start getting sentimental about children, aren’t you?” She chuckled a little, “Perhaps this is an opportunity for you.” The tailor looked at her, not exactly amused but maintaining his usual smiling composure.

“I must admit you’ve surprised me. I didn’t expect you would actually give him up so easily. Well then, I hope you have a safe and nice trip to… where are you going? Just so I might know where to direct the next news,” he smiled. “That is, if Rokat contacts me again. I don’t believe he would relay this to the Obsidian Order and  _ I _ certainly do not possess the power to do so.”

“You do have a keen sense of expectations, Mister Garak,” Ywanna told as she got up and over to the replicator, where she served herself some tea, “Where I’m going is my  _ own _ business. I believe news will find me on their own,” she blew on the hot steam as she turned around to shrug, “It’s such a pity, really. You spend your best years raising a child to become the best you have to give, and they go waste their life like this, letting sentiment rather than reason guide their way. Ah, well,” she spoke between sips, returning to the computer panel, “those rendezvous coordinates are rather peculiar, don’t you think? You’d almost think the Maquis are setting up an ambush for whomever will meet them there. That recording was made with a mixmedia video capturer; the metadata should contain the coordinates of the recording – I used to dabble into video arts,” she added, fidgeting the console panel. “Perhaps, Mister Garak, you’d like to pay those numbers a personal visit?”

“Miss Kel, I do not possess a ship and I doubt Commander Sisko would let me rent a runabout!” he chuckled. “It’s a pity of course. The stars are fascinating to travel through, though the excitement dulls after five minutes. In fact, I would even say it can be ah,  _ dead-boring _ on the long run…”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting you go alone, or with them – I was suggesting you go with me, unless, of course, you  _ can’t _ go into Cardassian space…”

“But you certainly can’t either,” Garak nodded. “Well, as we certainly wouldn’t want to put you at risk of a trial, I guess we could simply turn around before the border,” he smiled sweetly. Ywanna chuckled.

“Ah,  _ there _ are the coordinates of the recording,” she pleasantly looked at what she’d just finished extracting. “Let’s see if all that might draw Cardassia’s interest… But I’ll have to forward the message to someone a little bit more favoured by the State.” She moved to cover the controls with her body, while scrambling the signal to the favored person she had in mind: Enabran Tain.

 

It was a nice morning on Arawath, not that the former head of the Obsidian Order cared much about the weather. He was reading various reports when a chime interrupted him. He raised an eyeridge at the encryption key – that was one encryption method he hadn’t seen in a long, long time, but it wasn’t one he’d forget. He grumped to himself and picked the call.

“Yes?” he asked, a bit annoyed, “You interrupted my breakfast. This better be good.”

“It is,” Ywanna slipped the rod into the computer panel, and started the transfer, “If this situation could be resolved  _ without _ any direct involvement from the Central Command –  _ saving _ the Cardassians aboard – I believe... you won’t owe me a favor anymore.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” was all Tain had to say about that, though it was easy to tell he was rather delighted at the underlying meaning of it all.

“What did you have for breakfast?” Ywanna asked casually while he waited for the file to be transferred entirely.

“I don’t know, because I didn’t have it served yet, because of  _ you _ .”

“You’re awfully snappy before your first glass of fish juice, you know that, right?” Ywanna answered just as shortly.

“Bah,” countered Tain, then added, “and how did you get this transmission?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know?” Ywanna smirked, “Just have a good day, Tain.” The file had finished transmitting, and the cranky Cardassian terminated the call. Ywanna shook her head to herself.

“At  _ least _ he should appreciate the morning news with his breakfast,” she muttered as she turned around to look at Garak (who irradiated with a joy impossible to ignore no matter how much he tried to pass it as mere gladness), “We should get going, if we want to be there before the ship crosses the border,” she couldn’t help but smile as she reached the rod back towards him. 

“Would you mind if we pass by my quarters on the way?” the tailor tried not to let his wide smile devour his entire face. “I have some personal effects I favor having with me when traveling,” he put the rod in his pocket and waltzed to her side. “And so this was your Mister Tain?” he asked with joyful interest sparkling bubbles of light in the sky blue of his eyes. “A little grumpy indeed, was he, but he must be a very good old friend of yours, I presume?”

“I’ll meet you at Docking bay 4 in half an hour. And, yes, I guess you could say that,” she added, then continued, “I had many  _ close _ male friends back on Cardassia, if you get my meaning. And I’ll never know which of them is truly the father of my son,” she added, mostly to screw with Garak’s curiosity and no-doubt vivid imagination. The tailor did his best not to imagine  _ such _ a thing.

“See you soon,” he just answered and hurried away to his quarters to change clothes and get a phaser for himself, which he loosely hid in one of those bags from his shop, along with change clothes and a couple of other things he thought might come in handy. He still held the hope that, somehow, the brothers would find a way out of the dead end on their own – they’d been through a lot already – but he was also quite thrilled at the idea of a little trip around the Cardassian border. And Tain. His voice. How much he’d longed to hear this voice again. Oh, this was a glorious day, no matter how dire the situation for Elem, Glain and the kids. And Timun Lykes, probably.

##  * * *

The air conduit was getting hellishly cold, and Kilem cuddled closer to Terek, shivering. Outside, the steam from the broken pipes had turned into hoarfrost, spiky patterns splintering over the walls and floor, like a spider had woven a web while the ship slept.

“Do you think we could get the blankets from the room?” he asked in a hushed whisper, his voice a little bit unsteady, “Terek?” he nudged her arm a bit.

“Terek?” the girl echoed distantly, blinking as if slowly awaking from a dream, unless it were a nightmare. The loud sounds and the explosions had echoed through the conduits and all along, she’d stared into the darkness as if an entire world was painted before her eyes. She could see the house of white clay and chalk, the flowers and bushes as she turned around to run through the patio. A young man was gesturing frantically at her to come He didn’t wear his military uniform but had his phaser at hand and a Bajoran laid dead further away.

“ _ Terek! _ ” she called for the young man. His face was still that of a child, smooth and rounded, with slanted almond-shaped eyes like hers, but his expressions were stark and responsible.

“ _ Tilayan! Come, we can’t stay here! I must take you to safety! _ ” he grabbed her hand and ran with her down the garden’s stairs. They made it to the next patio but the world suddenly turned to nothing but noise, smoke and dust. Before the child could understand what had happened daylight disappeared and nothing but rubbles surrounded them. Her head was buzzing. She felt arms holding her close and Terek’s voice told her everything was going to be fine, but it wasn’t long before she lost consciousness. When she woke up, the young man was still holding her tight but he breathed no longer. There were noises around, scraping, voices…

“ _ Terek? _ ” the child called his name, again, and again and louder again, refusing to understand why he wasn’t answering, why he wasn’t moving. Daylight appeared again but it took the people more effort to dig out the siblings. Cardassian faces looked at them with concern. Hands took the girl away from her very still brother even though she cried his name in protest and tried to get back to him.

“Terek…!” she repeated and clung to Kilem. It was dark. It was cold. But he still had warmth in him. “We can’t stay here!” she decided, though she felt disoriented and drowsy. She pushed against the wall, then against the panel, and with Kilem’s help, they managed to dislodge it and get out. They shivered and grabbed the blankets as fast as they could, then the girl slumped on the bed and wrapped the blanket around herself, staring at her friend in a bit of shock. She didn’t know what to do anymore. Kilem climbed onto the bed to hug her, and rub his hands over her back and arms. With some movement, they got a little bit warmer, but not as nearly enough as was needed, and he eventually opted to get up and start pacing back and forth, wiggling his fingers and his toes in his shoes, and moving his arms to get himself to become a little warmer.

“You should move too,” he coughed a little at the cold of the air he’d inhaled, “if you sit still, you’ll become very cold, see? We have to keep moving.” He wasn’t sure where he’d learned that, but didn’t question the knowledge.

“We have to leave and find a warmer spot,” Terek decided, getting up with the blanket still wrapped tight around herself. “If we stay here, we’ll freeze to death. Those quarters are too close from the outside of the ship,” she nodded at the window. “The bathroom is more in the inside, we’re going to go there and hide. It’s our best chance for now,” she headed to the door then held herself tighter, wincing in pain. “I… I can’t stand the cold. I need warmth.”

Kilem stared at the bed, then at Terek’s behind, then at the bed, then followed her rather desperately, leaning close to tell her in a hushed, panicked voice, “You’re bleeding.” He cleared his throat a little, “we need to find a medical kit of some description – can- can cold make people bleed? It’s never been this cold before,” he realized, aghast, “I’ll warm you,” he mantled her in his blanket, too, “there, better?”

“Kilem,” she sighed drowsily, “it’s not a wound, it’s not blood ...or not  _ just _ blood,” she figured. “It’s the cramps,  _ those _ cramps,” she held her belly. “I… I really need to go to the bathroom,” she went forth to the door and out in the corridor. It was slightly less cold there, which was a relief, even though lights were blinking annoyingly. She peeped right and left. “It’s clear, let’s go,” she dragged him after her. “Ugh, I really need to pee and I’m so hungry…” she muttered.

Walking sometimes helped to make the cramps less painful, and sometimes not. It was the latter this time, and the teen had to hold to her friend to keep on progressing at a decent pace. They had no time to lose in the corridors where they might easily be ambushed. At least, the temperature did turn out a bit warmer in the bathroom. Kilem paced back and forth in front of the sinks, and let Terek do her business.

“I won’t leave you,” he told her, over and over, “I won’t let us be separated, if they hurt you, I’ll spray them with the hypospray,” he nodded to himself.

 

Meanwhile, in the cargo hold, the half-Klingon had taken himself and the crate near the door, firmly occupying the room’s warmest spot. Two hours had passed, and the air in there was positively chilling. Elem was starting to rustle under his sheets, moaning a little and turning his head, instinctively curling together to try and hide from the cold. Blinking and lost, he looked around, and saw Glain – pale where his skin wasn’t blackened by bruises and flecks of dried blood, he was hurt but alive.

“What happened?”

“You got stunned,” Glain smiled at him, relieved to see his brother coming back to the waken world, even if it was icy and biting. “I believe they must have sent the message to my father… and now, I don’t know.” Elem nodded and got into a more comfortable sitting position.

“How long have I been...?” he asked as he glanced over at the blatantly bored half-Klingon, “We outnumber him,” he added in a whisper.

“I heard that,” Koltras remarked casually, pointing his rifle at them as a reminder, “feeling better? Because I could do something about that, if I hear any more of that talk.” Elem blushed and shrunk a bit. The worst part was that the harshness was making him mildly aroused, and it wasn’t even sexual.

“Yes, I’m feeling better, thank you,” he peeped as he curled his knees to his chin, “Why hasn’t life support been turned on yet?”

“Because we don’t give a fuck about this ship or its crew; we’re only staying long enough to load the cargo to our ship, and you,” he grinned toothily, “I don’t think your Cardassian masters will come for you. But that’s fine, there are all sorts of people who’d like nothing more than to pay to fuck a pretty spoonhead like you – you’d be surprised at the sexual energy hatred can instil in people.” Elem’s arousal wasn’t helped, and he felt disgusted by himself, because it wasn’t as if he’d  _ actually _ enjoy something like that. Glain hugged his brother closer and let him feel under the blanket that he was still holding his hypospray, as to suggest he was ready to use it at the first opportunity.

“And what sort of people pay for that? Terrans? Bajorans? Men, I bet? Though, I noticed Bajoran women can be just as vicious, if not more,” Glain tried to further the discussion in hope to lower their guard’s attention. “I don’t mean that in a racist way of course – viciousness is a quality. I’m just curious as to who we may end up in bed with. If there’s even a bed…”

“I said  _ pretty _ spoonheads. That doesn’t include you,” Koltras tossed at Glain and was pleased to see the effeminate Cardassian seemed hurt by his words – the half-Klingon was a bit more amused now, “but you’d do it, wouldn’t you? Like the pathetic snakeskin you are, you’d  _ like _ to be used, wouldn’t you? It’d give you worth beyond the scales on the skin. I’d even say it’d give you a purpose, but that would be to exaggerate. No, you,” he pointed the weapon at Glain, “are nowhere pretty enough. We usually favour women, and your little housekeeper slut is much more feminine than you. But then, I guess you wanted him for yourself, isn’t that why you’re bringing him to Cardassia? It’s not the first time I’ve seen this,” he ensured to Elem mostly, “Cardassians traveling to other worlds, finding half-breeds or aliens there that catch their fancy, promise them a good life in Cardassia and  _ there you go _ : import whores. Nothing more than fucktoys, in the end. That’s what you were meant to be, to this wimpish space lizard no less! Now, that’s still what you’ll become in the end, but to people significantly more worthy than him.”

“Like you?” Elem asked with a twitch, taking hold of the hypospray and comfortingly stroking Glain’s fingers with the motion.

“You’re catching on,” Koltras appreciated, then made an amused sound, “so, are you freezing too much, or would you like another blanket? I might have one somewhere over here,” he patted the crate next to him.

“I’m fine,” Elem reassured him. The Maquis disapproved.

“If you don’t come over here like a good boy, I’ll  _ shoot _ your master – and this thing isn’t set to stun.” He patted the crate again, and Elem got up, sending Glain a look before walking over there, still huddled in the blanket. The engineer didn’t exchange any further words with Koltras; all that was needed was body language. He straddled the half-Klingon’s lap – his breath stunk of something old and rotten – and let the blanket fall off of his shoulders, as the other pressed the nozzle of the weapon under his chin.

“Now, you’ll kiss me.”

Disgusted with himself, Elem leaned forwards towards that breath – the scent he exhaled would’ve been more fitting for the other end of his body, he thought, yet laid his lips against the other’s, lifted his hands to his chest, running them up to his neck, where he let the snake lash out and bite. The rifle went off, but at that point, it was no longer aimed at Melekor, and instead rained sparks from the ceiling, while the wide-eyed Maquis fell backwards, soon spasming and gurgling. Elem, rather terrified with the display, flung himself backwards. Glain however jumped on his feet and went to pick the weapon and kick repeatedly in the man’s head, smashing it against the crate with enough strength to bloody it. The satisfaction of revenge washed over him. The pleasure wasn’t to last however, as a loud klaxon suddenly started to ring and red lights flashed all over the ship.

“ _ Self destruct sequence has been initiated. Core breach in. Thirty minutes. _ ”

“Seems like the negotiations are over; they’ve decided to destroy the entire ship!” Glain looked at the agonizing man at his feet, then at Elem again, “I don’t think they’ll want to take us aboard their ship, not even as fucktoys now.” He checked that the weapon was indeed set to kill, aimed at the agonizing Klingon and fired. The Maquis stopped moving at once. “At least, this works pretty well. What should we do now? Is there any way to deactivate that self-destruct sequence?”

Elem shakily looked at the dead man. The way he’d spasmed… He gulped and looked at Glain, then tried to open the door, which was locked.

“There should be a failsafe somewhere,” he clawed on the panel, but got frustrated, “Give me that,” he took the rifle roughly from Glain, then set the powercell to overload and threw himself and his brother behind a crate. The explosion was enough to tear a hole in the door.

“You need to go find the children and get on an escapepod – I’ll head to the engine room. I  _ think _ I can solve this; I’ll need to eject the warp core.”

“ _ Where _ are the escape pods?” Glain asked tentatively. “I wish you didn’t have to destroy that weapon entirely…” he muttered, searching the half-Klingon’s body for another weapon, but in vain.

“Follow the red lights,” Elem pointed to them, “they always trail in the direction of the closest escape pod bay. And yes, I had to, but… no one will give a fuck about anything but to get off of the ship right now. I bet most of the Maquis already beamed,” unless their transporters didn’t work, which would explain why they’d likely latched onto this ship to get the goods, and why they were still hanging around loading cargo after several hours. “I’ll take the jefferies tubes,” he went over to the wall and dislodged a panel, reeling back at the arraying cold that came from it. Then he turned and took one last look at Glain, “I’m glad I got to meet you,” he told him with a frozen smile, “I love you, Brother.”

“I love you too,” Glain shot in a dry voice as Elem disappeared in the maze-like system. He turned away and squeezed himself through the hole in the door, dragging a blanket along. He ran through the corridors and the cold air quickly started to make his throat hurt like hell. His lungs burnt and his head was getting light, but he still recognized the path leading to their quarters. The cold decreased for a while, then increased again as he probably neared the hull. Crystals of ice were forming in wetter place  and he had to care not to slip on the floor. At last, he made it to the corridor of their quarters and saw two little balls of blankets running in his direction.

“Kilem, Terek!” he collapsed down his knees in relief, hugging them both. “We need to get to the escape pods, we need to follow the red lights,” he told them.

“We came to take the bags,” Terek told quickly. “We thought you’d come here too. Where’s Elem?”

“In engineering, trying to stop the destruct sequence,” Glain coughed. “I hope he succeeds…” Not losing further time, he took the bag containing his PADDs (and all the data mined on Bajor), and led the way. When they ran into a Maquis at an intersection, he was quick enough to throw himself on her and use the hypospray Elem had given to the children. Trading it for her weapon was welcome and proved useful as to wage their way to the bay. But as he stepped over the body of a nondescript Federation alien he’d just killed, he realized that there were no pods to be found there. He braced himself. “I guess we’ll just have to find the next bay, then…”

##  * * *

It’d been a long wait in engineering, and the board computer had just announced that the self-destruct sequence had been engaged. Emcqay didn’t flinch however.

“Chill out boy,” he told Timun who didn’t look as calm, “It means the captain’s still alive after all. He must have grown weary and now wants those Maquis to shit themselves and leave while they can. Half an hour is more than enough for them to do just that. I’m about sure Kerach will stop the protocol before the end.”

“And if that’s not the case? If he gets killed in the meantime?”

“Then we’re good as dead and there’s no escaping our fate,” the man grinned. “I’m not sure there are pods to be found in the escape bays. Too costly. I know, it’s shitty,” he commented Timun’s expression. “Now, get ready. We might have some visitors if some foolhardy Maquis think there’s anything they can do to halt that. We’ll just make sure they understand it’s not happening, hm?” he patted his rifle. Timun held his breath. There were two doors to watch out for. He took the one to the left, leaving the one to the right to the other. Time passed and it felt a lot longer than it probably really was, but the Vulcan finally startled as he heard some sounds.

“Someone’s coming toward your door,” he whispered. Emcqay nodded and aimed, ready to welcome the intruder. He fired when a Maquis came in, or at least tried to fire but found his rifle was out of power, and the timing was now too short for him to reach for the other one on his back.  _ Shitty Maquis sub-par weapons _ , read his face.

“Ha! Now what have we got there?” the pointy-eared newcomer got closer, rifle pointed toward the Dopterian. “Did either of you jam our systems?” he squinted. He glared at Timun, quickly aiming at him.

“He did! He did!” the Vulcan answered hastily.

“You traitorous bi-” the Dopterian didn’t have time to answer as he was shot. The Maquis came closer to pick his weapons and Timun tried to use that time to sneak toward the left door.

“ _ Where _ are you going?” the other interrupted him, ready to fire. Timun gasped, freezing where he stood, exposed, too far from anything that could have provided him swift cover.

“Please, no! I’m a doctor! I have no weapon, he just forced me to carry that crate!” he pointed at it as he bargained for his life.

“What species are you? Vulcan? I’ve never seen a Vulcan behaving like such a wuss,” the Maquis observed.

“I’m half-Trill.”

“And I’m fully Romulan. Get your katra together and say hello to your ancestors if you can,” he grinned and aimed. Timun gulped but surprise washed over his face as yet another person came from behind the Romulan and pressed a hypospray to his neck – the Maquis fell down at once. The Cardassian yanked the weapon from him and, without hesitation, shot him straight between the eyes. As a doctor, Timun knew what exactly the hypospray was doing to the Romulan’s brain and was almost thankful to be spared having to see the long, painful, awful agony. He didn’t have the time to relax however. Elem turned to him just as quickly and aimed at him. No one would know he’d been the one to do it. Doctor Lykes would be just another victim of the assault. For some reason, he hadn’t pressed the trigger yet, and that moment was getting longer. Timun understood very well that the threat wasn’t less real just because he hadn’t been shot yet.

“I beg you, don’t,” he spoke with a very dry voice. “I know you hate me, but think of Savras. She’s your friend, she loves me and she doesn’t need to have her heart broken again on top of everything shitty that’s happening to her,” he appealed. “Killing me won’t bring him back, but it might kill her. She needs me, Elem… She needs us both. You mean a lot to her and that’s why I’m here,” he stared at him intensely. “Please, don’t do this and let me care for you and Glain, and the kids… I’m still a doctor…” Elem didn’t answer. He shot. Timun’s heart skipped a beat – the energy hadn’t fired in his direction, but the  _ thump _ he heard in his back made it clear that someone had fallen near the door. Woman or man, whichever species, Elem couldn’t tell what he’d just killed, nor did he care. He set his weapon back on Timun, fingers nervously feeling the setting buttons.

“It won’t bring him back, but you would’ve died if not for me. I didn’t even do it for you, I just need to get to engineering,” then he pressed the trigger again, a bit surprised at how he didn’t feel much when the doctor fell to the floor. He allowed himself a short moment of contemplation before simply stepping over him and continuing on his search through the jefferies tubes.

“ _ Twenty minutes to core breach _ ,” the computer reminded him stiffly, and he rolled his eyes a little. It seemed as if no time had passed by the time the computer spoke again. “ _ Fifteen minutes to core breach. _ ”

At last, he was there, at the hatch leading to the engine room. Two persons were heard frantically speaking on the other side – one of them must have been part of the original team, because the other was shouting at him to hurry up, and possibly aiming at him. Elem took a deep breath and held it, looking out between the slits of the metal door. The Maquis’ back was turned to him, and a Lissepian was rummaging around in a locker at the other side. The second problem was that the hinges were very obviously rusty – he’d have to act swift. With some effort, he prepared himself to fire something deadly, then kicked open the locker and opened fire. His first shot hit the Lissepian rather than the Maquis. A red jet of phaser fire singed near his hair as the Maquis only barely missed him – Elem’s shot found its target much better, and finally, he found himself alone in the room. Swiftly, he checked the bodies for weapons – as it turned out they were  _ both _ armed, and Elem took those arms for himself as he went to the main room.

The warp core was sheathed in black metal; the plasma could only vaguely be seen through some inspection hatches, and the turbulence was indeed volatile. The engineer in him kicked in, and he started trying the access panels, soon realizing that he didn’t have the clearance codes necessary. So, he’d have to do a hard override, which meant the entire room would get vacuumed into space.

Good times.

Still, he set to it, rerouting cables, and finally managing to set the doors to open on his command ...the only crux being that he’d have to stay in the room to close them again.

“ _ Core breach in five minutes, _ ” the computer informed him as casually as if it was telling him that unfortunately, they’d run out of tea, did he want something else instead?

He found a sturdy chain in a box near the wall, and attached himself to it – if it pulled him the wrong way, his spine would snap, but he didn’t have a better option, really. It was a bit difficult get to the right settings once he got back to the open panel – a large quantity of spiders had come crawling into the cables, and he had to shoo them away, to get to his data chip. With a forceful move, he janked at the chain to test  the resistance – it was attached to a large spider on the wall. Then he took the remote control in his hand and, realizing he’d grabbed a spider instead, shouted in surprise and horror, throwing it away – as it hit the floor, it turned back into the trigger, and he had to reach his full length towards it to capture it again. Once more turned into a spider, he pressed the device’s big, fuzzy stomach so hard that his thumb went  _ through _ the spider’s abdomen and into its guts. The sound was disgusting, but gone in an instant, as space sucked the warp core  _ out  _ and Elem into the pit that it left behind.

He pressed the spider again, and the hatch below closed with a metallic groan. And there he hung like an absurd marionette, some three meters down a tube-like shack, with no real way of getting up – not only that, there were spiders everywhere, and he could’ve sworn he heard someone moving, someone who was there to kill him.

##  * * *

Setik gave Kerach a bored look, even though he was internally quite amused at the situation. “So the entire self-destruct sequence is fake?” he concluded, still pointing his phaser at the Lissepian.

“I would never destroy my own ship! Nor kill myself and my crew!” the captain assured, both angry and terrified. “I just wanted those Maquis to be scared and leave!”

“ _ Warp core ejected _ ,” announced the computer.

“What!?” the Lissepian shouted in horror. “Who did that!?”

“ _ Core breach in one minute, _ ” the computer soon added, seemingly not having made the connection between the absence of core and the impossibility to carry on the destruction sequence.

“I guess I’ll believe that those are fake recorded messages with poor programming to back them up,” the Cardassian shot the Lissepian, stunning him for a while. “Dalen,” he tapped his communicator, “beam me to engineering, I’ll investigate those lifesigns first.” He vanished in the instant, reappearing in a room in which a Maquis and a Lissepian layered the floor, both dead. Interesting, he noted to himself and headed toward the warp core room, phaser at hand and careful. He raised an eyeridge at the sight, grand and dramatic in its emptiness. The poor sod attached to a chain and lamely hanging in the void must be Kel, the engineer, Setik figured.

“Are you enjoying the sight?” he asked. “Or maybe you’d rather get back up here, hm?”

Elem squinted upwards. The figure there seemed menacing, and he wasn’t sure if he  _ wanted  _ to get up there. Rummaging in his pocket, he found the Liseppian’s phaser pistol, still armed, and pointed it at the other person.

“Keep your distance,” he told him in a voice that was mangled by fear and thin air. Then, instead of shooting the stranger, he took aim at a particularly fat spider – big as a dog – that had been slowly making its way up the wall towards him, and shot it. The creature let out a high pitched screech and fell some meters, “And stay down,” he scolded the creature before re-taking the aim at the other. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind at the fact that he could now see that the man was a Cardassian, “There are no other Cardassians on the ship,” he told the other factually, “You must be an impostor. Or maybe you’re not real,” he considered; he likely had withdrawal symptoms by now. In fact, that’d explain the spiders, “Are you real?” he asked, pretty sure he’d know if the other lied.

“No, of course not, I’m a figment of your imagination,” Setik grinned and swiftly shot Melekor on the lowest stun setting of his weapon. Ten minutes was probably more than enough to get him out of there and address whatever medical condition was up with him. “Beam that one up, Dalen. You’ll want to ask his mother to check him. He’s hallucinating things and confused,” he told as the engineer dematerialized. “I’ll investigate that other lifesign nearby.” He got up and went back on his way. He did find it suspicious that a  _ Ferengi _ shuttle would have scared the Maquis ship away  _ and _ that they’d been reading more Cardassian lifesigns than was expected. There was one too many. Carefully, he progressed to the room where the next Cardassian was to be found. He first caught sight of three likely dead aliens and a barely conscious Vulcan sitting somewhat unsteadily against a crate. That one didn’t exactly look like a Maquis.

“Show yourself,” Setik held up his phaser. “Or I suppose I could kill this one,” he aimed at Timun. “I have no orders to protect non-Cardassians.”

“But you could use this doctor,” a familiar voice chimed from behind the corner of a wall.

“Ha! I  _ knew _ it had to be you,” Setik’s voice got a few pitches higher in enthusiasm.

“Tell me, Setik. Was Kel seeing spiders already?” Garak asked.

“I couldn’t tell you for certain that it’s what he saw, but you seem familiar with his ailments…”

“If he isn’t administered with his phelenaxinide quickly, he will die. Additional medical support might be needed. This Vulcan has saved his life in such situations twice and I believe he has everything needed to deal with this emergency, probably in his quarters.”

“Good to know... Now why don’t you come so I can see your face?” – Garak laughed.

“So you can shoot me? I miss you too, Setik, but I’ll pass on this one. Just get going with reanimating that Vulcan. I believe Miss Kel would be very disappointed to see her son dying, and Tain won’t appreciate this rescue mission to be a fiasco – having had his breakfast interrupted for nothing in the end will probably make him just as cranky for dinner.”

“Your exile won’t be canceled over this, Garak,” Setik stepped forth to reach Timun, soon finding himself and his former superior holding each other in respect. “But… maybe you’re starting to understand he’s not going to forgive you?” he lowered his weapon a little; Garak didn’t lower his guard in the least. “Too bad… I believe he misses you, still.”

“How good to hear,” Garak squinted. However charming this sounded, Tain would never confide such words to anyone, the spy was certain of it.

“If you’re ever bored sewing dresses on that station, maybe you should think of coming back home,” Setik glared at the tailor. “But tell me,  _ Elim _ , how did you scare away those Maquis?”

“We didn’t. A larger ship might have,” the tailor shrugged. “But tell me,  _ Setik _ , what is Corbin doing in Pythas’s office?” he asked in return, trying not to let his irritation show too much.

“Oh, you’d like to know that…” the agent raised an eyeridge, “Maybe you should ask Pythas then,” he grinned.

“Just give another 2cc of that stimulant to Lykes, that should put him back on track,” Garak threw a hypospray at his former subalterne and backed off to the door.

“It was good to see you, Elim!” Setik shouted at the other and injected the doctor, before tapping his communicator. “Dalen, beam the three Cardassians wandering around together.” As the drowsy Vulcan started to try and sit up a bit better, the Cardassian turned his attention back to him. “Are you getting back to your senses, Doctor? We have a hallucinating engineer in need of some care.” Timun blinked, not understanding why he was seeing an unknown Cardassian.

“Are we in Cardassia yet?” he asked in confusion. Last thing he remembered, he’d been shot. “I thought I died…” he looked around, realizing he was still on the ship. Why was this Cardassian here? He slowly started to process the rest of what he’d heard, producing sense as much as he could. “An engineer, ah… That idiot wasted his last capsule on that Romulan? Uh… My tools…” he pointed at the medikit, slowly remembering that it wasn’t where he’d stored the capsules of the alternative medicine that Julian had given him, “Oh,no, I need to get back to my… my quarters,” he struggled to get up and gave a look of disbelief to the dead bodies. Everything was unreal. “The captain stopped the self-destruct?” he asked haphazardly.

“That was never necessary,” Setik helped him onto his feet. “Do you need another shot or will you be fine?”

“I’ll take the hypo,” Timun looked at it. “It’s mine, actually,” he realized and reached his medikit. “I had a feeling it’d be useful,” he started to brighten up a bit. “Where’s Elem? I mean, Melekor?”

“On which level are your quarters?” Setik asked instead.

“Fourth, and oh,” the Vulcan suddenly held himself to the crate and stuck his ear to it, “I have no idea whether it’s animals or people in there, but there are living things of some description in there.”

“Interesting,” Setik merely commented before requiring Dalen to beam them to the living quarters, deck four.

##  * * *

When Elem woke up, he wasn’t exactly docile. The first thing he did, was to throw some medical tools at something terrifying only he could see, and then hauled himself at the ground to get away, resulting in a sprained ankle for him, and a rather unpleasant surprise for the Cardassian nurse. Then, something yanked around his mind, and he stilled. Reality, while still blurred, shone through the illusions, though nothing made much sense, and he was sure it was a trick.

_ “It’s not a trick, Melekor,” _ his mother spoke in his mind, stepping forth through the door and holding a hand to the Cardassian who was there with them, as to calm him and, by proxy, calm her son, “You are suffering withdrawal symptoms,” she took something from the nurse, and then walked over to him, sitting on her heels,  _ “We are here to help you.” _

When he felt the nozzle against his skin, he reacted faster than she’d anticipated, tearing the hypospray from her and, instead of getting sedated himself, sedated her, then went for the caretaker, intending on taking him down, too. He didn’t want to be experimented on! Halfway there, however, he collapsed on the floor, his vision blurring into dots of black and white. The headache was nauseating, he really felt like the pressure inside his skull was threatening to crush him. An agonized whimper left him as he fell on his side, cramping together in spasms.

 

“What’s going on here?” Setik asked as he and Timun came in, finding Ywanna on a bed while the nurse was tying Elem onto another bed. It looked like a bad situation and Timun stepped forth, hypospray at hand.

“I’m his doctor, I know what I’m doing,” he told when the nurse tried to bar his way. “He’s going to die if I don’t inject him quickly with this.” The woman let him do.

“What’s wrong with him?” she still asked – Timun held up his medical tricorder.

“He’s having a stroke,” he answered casually and prepared a few doses of various drugs. “Hold him in place, please,” he required as the spasms weren’t stopping yet.

“I meant-”

“I know, but I don’t discuss my patients’ ailments before verifying I’m talking to licensed medical personnel and we don’t have time for this. I know what I’m doing and that’s all matters right now,” he pursued with the injections before calibrating a neural stimulator and setting it on Elem’s forehead. “You have a scanner, right? I need to see the display. Brain, heart, vital functions and parameters,” he demanded – the nurse kept neutral, betraying no emotion nor thought as she complied, observing him with keen eyes. “What happened to Ywanna?” Timun chose to use her first name.

“She took a nap,” the nurse answered as casually as Timun had before. The doctor allowed himself a small smile.

“How good for her.” The drug Bashir had synthesized had a much slower and gentler effect, which wasn’t exactly to Elem’s advantage in this situation, but eventually the withdrawal symptoms started to decrease and Timun was doing a good enough job adapting to the situation. He noticed more people were brought in and heard Glain and Terek’s voices before they disappeared in the adjacent room to receive care, probably. Meanwhile, Ywanna had been reanimated.

“Miss Kel,” Timun shot a polite smile at her from where he stood. She blinked a bit at him, then got up to a sitting state, rubbing her head. After a while, she started having issues to breathe, eventually breaking down into a series of strangled laughs.

“That didn’t work out as I intended,” she commented, laughing more freely, “I am going to just pin it on his survival instincts,” she nodded to her son, “I’m glad he still has some,” then she nodded to Lykes. “Fancy meeting you here. I would say that I hope the travel’s treated you kindly, but I hear otherwise. How  _ is _ the young Mister Rokat? Did they mend his face yet?”

“His face? Did he get beaten that bad?” Timun winced. “He must be getting care in that room right now,” he gestured in that direction before starting to care for Elem’s own bruises.

“That’s cosmetic,” Ywanna criticized as she approached, “if you don’t mind, I’d rather you wake him up, so I can have a  _ talk _ with him. He’s  _ my _ son.”

“And he’s an idiot,” Timun annoyedly searched for the right drug then injected it. “I hope shooting me felt good for you because it did not on my end,” he told Elem as he emerged. “Don’t move too fast,” he held him in place. “Your body has been through a lot again – you fractured several ribs and it’ll take a while for them to heal properly.” He spared him more medical intricacies he certainly wasn’t in condition to process, backing off slowly to let Ywanna relay him. At that point, the Cardassian nurse made it clear that his help no longer was needed and he was made to leave – Elem was just as relieved that Timun left, as he was displeased to see his mother.

“Go away,” he croaked in a dry voice. His mother just sat on the bed next to him and patted his hand. He snapped it away.

“Melekor, there’s really no need to be so dramatic,” Ywanna rolled her eyes at him, then sighed, “You’re really going to Cardassia, then?” He hummed his response, “And would you prefer if I came with you?”

“Only if you intend on standing trial for what you’ve done,” he didn’t look at her; she didn’t look at him.

“There are no nice punishments in Cardassia, Melekor. If I stand trial, it would be to die. And I can’t do that for this whim of yours,” she patted his hand again, “I’m sorry, little one.”

“If you don’t, it’ll be more difficult for-” she put a finger over her lips.

“I know,” she told him in a hushed voice, “but that’s his battle to fight, not mine. You can’t put the entire responsibility on me, Melekor: it takes at least two to make a child. I’ve taken you this far, and if you decide it’s his turn to take the burden, then it really  _ is _ his turn to take the burden.”

“So, I’m a burden,” Elem repeated, unamused.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” a little peeved, Ywanna got up from the bed and looked down at him. “You go where you need to go, but if you ever find that you regret your choice, you should always know that... I’ll miss you. And if you wish to find me again, you’ll have to navigate the blackness between the stars to find me. But I’ll be out there.”

“Now who is dramatic?” Elem tried to sit up, but between the bonds and his own weakness, he couldn’t really move much.

“Reality has a flair for the dramatic sometimes, it’s just how it is,” she shrugged and then leaned forwards, giving his forehead the kind of kiss he hadn’t gotten since he was but a small boy, “I love you, Melekor, and I hope you’ll remember that.” If she expected an answer back, she had to leave empty handed – Elem said nothing, and didn’t even exhale properly until she’d beamed out, leaving nothing but a ghostly void after her.

 

Before the Cardassian vessel resumed its flight, Timun thought to ask the Cardassian man who tagged along with him if anything had become of the crate from engineering.

“Is it your property?” Setik asked. This gave Timun some flashbacks of the Romulan Ale bottles and how it all ended with Odo and his first stay in detention.

“No, it’s not. It belonged to the Dopterian who died. From what I figured, that alien was quite shady and so, I would imagine the content of the crate to be illegal to some extent.”

“You do care about that crate, do you? Why?”

“I’m a doctor. It’s my duty to keep people and animals in good health,” Timun answered honestly.

Setik grinned ever so slightly. “Let’s go see that crate, Mister Lykes. You’re coming with me.” Timun took a deeper breath and obeyed. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. But then, he wasn’t sure he would have found sleep so easily afterwards. With all that had happened, with how little action he’d been able to take, he needed to care and heal as much as he could. He was a doctor. It was his job. And when he got to see what was inside the crate, he remembered the Cardassian PADD he’d found when cleaning after Emcqay. The one about Brentalia’s natural reserve.

##  * * *

It had taken what felt like an eternity before Glain and Timun had been able to see each other again, in Glain’s quarters – the Vulcan had been relieved to know Elem wouldn’t be present, and he was kind enough to entertain the children by explaining the function of his various tools and how to use them. It was all a good distraction from the eventful attack they’d been through, and one last occasion to sing together like they did on the runabout trip from Bajor. They laughed. Glain was pleased with his reflect in the mirror, all bruises and fractures erased from his pretty face. Timun too felt better. Eventually the children fell asleep, exhausted, and the archivist and the doctor had a little trip to the ship’s restaurant to share another cup of tea together, along with a little snack.

“Tell me, what do your Vulcan ears hear?” Glain joked at some point as everybody in the room, including them, seemed to be speaking in whispers.

“Gossips about fashion trends and lizards –  _ regnar _ , I think?” Timun delivered.

Glain snickered, although he was about certain those gossips had more to them than he and Timun could grasp.

“Setik asked me about Melekor’s other name that I slipped out when he woke me up,” Timun shared. “I told I’d been a bit confused because I heard him called for someone with a similar name, Elim – probably the man he’d been speaking with before I regained consciousness completely, it was but distant voices…” Glain raised an eyeridge at that. Garak  _ had _ been there, then?

“And what was in that crate in the end?” he asked instead.

“Young Kryonian tiger cubs,” Timun couldn’t help but smile at the thought of them, “They were  _ adorable _ . I didn’t expect they’d let me manipulate them and sound them so easily; they were like big cats, really. Setik seemed quite enthused to assist in that task. I’m worried he liked them. Kryonian tigers are a protected species and they should be returned to Brentalia, for their sake. I don’t think they were in age to be separated from their mother ...if she’s still alive,” he darkened a little. “Their pelts became all the more valuable since this species got on the edge of extinction.”

“Are they fit to live on Cardassia?” Glain asked.

“In matter of climate, there should be no problem. But they do require quite some amount of meat…” The archivist could see what predicament would lay there although he didn’t voice it, because it would be un-Cardassian to do so in front of an alien.

“I’m sure Setik would have many ideas as to how to feed such creatures…” So would the Ministry of Justice, in all honesty.

Eventually, they parted and Glain got himself some good hours of sleep before being woken up by the children. It’d been good for the archivist and the doctor to have those talks together, speak of what they’d gone through to make the events more real but less traumatic in a way. Glain had almost forgotten to hate Timun. But it was welcome.

In this moment, suspended in space and a handful of hours away from Cardassia Prime and its busy capital, the travelers could enjoy a time of respite. Yet unaware of all that awaited them on this planet, they could dream, imagine and hope for the best. And why, some of those hopes could even come true. After all, there was no crime nor sorrow in Cardassia, and all endings were happy…

  
End of Book I   
To be continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read so far, we hope you enjoyed yourself. The story has a continuation on Cardassia (so many dishes to discover!) and if you're curious about it, please, do tell us :)  
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> (wow, it feels really odd to finally get to post this final chapter)


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